Happily a Throuple

Well, Gentle Reader, here we are again. I'm writing kind of two parallel universes about how things work with a husband and wife and others. If you want to see the dark side, check out my

Learning to Love It

series. But for now, let's see how our lovebirds are doing in this more gentle universe.

Come along, don't be shy. You know there's a bit of the voyeur in all of us.

Chapter Two

I watched her sleep.

"Christ," I thought, "the age police will be after you."

Asleep, relaxed, that great mane of hair tangled and a tiny trickle of drool running from the corner of her mouth, she wouldn't have been noticed in a 7th-grade English class. Even her small breasts, her nipples soft now as she slept, magnified the image of youth.

I watched her sleep.

I let my eyes wander down her body. The daylight, filtered through the blinds, and in this light she looked truly beautiful. Her skin was pale and smooth. Her shape was almost androgynous, only the small bumps of her breasts and the light swell of her hips showing off her femaleness.

I watched her sleep, and thought.

"She probably thinks your some sort of little subbie sissy or something," I thought, "after last night."

I chuckled. I could certainly see how she would conclude that.

I watched her sleep, and thought.

"No, idiot," I thought, "there is no such thing as love at first sight."

Maybe not, but I was damn sure smitten.

I watched her sleep until the pressure in my bladder forced me to get up.

I moved slowly, rolling rather than scooting, wanting to let her sleep. Hell, I wanted to do what needed doing and then come back and watch her sleep some more.

I padded into the bathroom, leaving the light off, and sat to pee. I wanted to keep the noise as low as possible.

I hadn't looked at the clock but knew it was early. The light filtering through the windows was the pale light of dawn, not the glare of later on a summer day. I sat, relaxed, head hanging, eyes closed as I peed, feeling that gentle pleasure/relief of the morning's first urination.

I opened my eyes and jumped a little, startled, to see two feet standing there in front of me.

I looked up and I was eye to pussy with that amazing diamond of pubic hair.

I looked up more and saw her smiling down at me.

"You'd better hurry up, Bunky," she said, "or it's gonna get messy."

I laughed, tapped, and stood.

"Your turn," I said, bowing slightly and doing the arm sweep gesture, the universal symbol for "enter."

She sat and somehow I found that her completely uninhibited approach to meeting the morning's needs was endearing.

When I heard that odd hissing sound of a woman peeing I turned on the water, loaded my toothbrush with my

Crest Whitening

, and brushed my teeth.

I watched in the mirror, fascinated, as she finished, folded a pad of toilet paper, wiped, stood, flushed, and came to stand beside me.

I finished brushing and she held out her hand.

"Gimme," she said and I handed her my toothbrush before I bent, rinsed from cupped hands, spat, rinsed, swished with

Listerine Mint

, spat and rinsed again.

By then she had finished brushing, and pretty much mirrored what I had done.

I watched and we smiled at each other a lot in the mirror.

When she was finished she turned, put her arms around my neck, and pulled me down for a kiss.

I kissed her, but then pushed her away far enough that I could focus on her eyes.

"Last night," I said, "was fun. I enjoyed every second of it. But Jennifer, please don't get the idea that I'm some subbie, sissy wannabe."

She smiled, a happy smile, and said, "Good. That's not what I'm looking for although, you're right, last night was fun."

She took my hand and started for the bedroom.

"So let's see what you got, big guy," she said.

I laughed.

"What 44-year-old college professor could resist THAT challenge?" I asked her back.

It was a good back with a very tight, small ass showing an inverted heart shape. That band of fat at the tops of her thighs seemed to emphasize the slenderness of her dancer's legs. Yes, a very good back.

She crawled up onto the bed, giggling, and I'm pretty sure putting some extra wiggle into that pretty ass. Then she rolled over, legs parted, and held her arms out.

I caught her hands, my fingers entwining with hers, a move all of those hours in a karate dojo made seem almost natural, used my weight to pin her hands beside her ears, and kissed her, a hard, demanding kiss.

She pulled her knees up and back, offering herself, but I pulled away.

"Don't be in such a hurry," I said softly, "I want to explore you."

"Ooooh," she breathed, "Dr. Livingston or Indiana Jones?"

I laughed and said, "Yes."

I kneewalked backward a bit, until my knees were between her calves, and started inspecting her sex.

The most obvious feature was that wide diamond of pubic hair. I reached down and touched it, feeling how heavy and coarse each individual hair was. It was sparse and straight, laying flat against the skin of her

mons veneris

and her labia. The thought came that if I could somehow braid and insulate this hair, it was strong enough to conduct electricity.

"Ridiculous, isn't it?" she asked, her head laying back on the pillow, looking up.

"If you don't like it," I asked, "why not trim it?"

"Tried," she said. "My skin down there is so sensitive that the touch of a razor leaves me with the rash from hell. Waxing is no better. So I'm stuck with it unless I want to invest about eighty-five hundred dollars in lasers and chemicals."

"Well," I said, my fingers playing in it, "I think it's sexy."

"Good," she said, shivering a little as my thumbs parted her labia a little, lifting her clitoral hood and exposing that hard little pink button it protected, "because unless you've got that kind of money lying around, it's staying."

Her breath caught when my thumb pressed gently on her clitoris and the sudden clench of muscles pushed a little rush of thick white semen mixed with her vaginal lubricant out to run down the crack of her ass.

"Oh my," she whispered as I bent forward, blowing gently where I had been touching and then inhaling deeply, letting her womanscent, laden with pheromones, do its work.

I kissed that odd little band of fat at the tops of her thighs.

"A gift from my mother," she said. "Well, probably more like a gift from my million-times removed great-grandmother who needed to store fat reserves in case the foraging was poor or the hunt failed."

I laughed and said, "Your mind is an interesting place."

I drug my tongue slowly up, starting as far back between her legs as I could reach, almost to her anus, and slowly up until I flicked her clitoris, savoring the texture and taste of her as I did it.

Okay, my mind is an interesting place too. I noticed that there was none of that coarse hair on her labia between her legs and thought that the combination of that strange band of fat at the tops of her thighs combined with the mild plumpness of her nether lips meant that every step rubbed her smooth.

"Oh, shit," she breathed softly, "I'll give you exactly 42 minutes to stop that."

I leaned back, reached up for my

Fitbit

on the headboard, scrolled and found the timer app, and set it.

I spent the next 42 minutes on my belly, using my mouth and tongue, bringing her to wave after wave of orgasm. Some were light, almost "mini." Some were so hard and intense I wondered about her bladder control but the scent and taste remained pure womanscent and womantaste with no hint of urine.

When the little chime went off, signaling the end of her 42 minutes, I moved up and slipped inside of her. By then I was so damn hard I ached and even with her so ready, so hot and wet, hell, so slick, my control failed almost instantly.

My ejaculation was powerful, leaving me breathless, panting, and my head spinning.

We both shivered as I held my back arched, wanting to stay inside of her.

Nature, and the four decades on my personal calendar, took over, though, and I slipped out.

"Oh, yeah," she said, "I could get used to this."

I chuckled.

"Oh, yeah," I said, "I could DEFINITELY get used to this."

We made love three more times that day before she went home. The second time, right after I made us a big breakfast - "I think we'll need energy today," I said, wearing nothing but an apron. She patted me on the ass, complimented my cooking, and took me into her mouth, crawling under the table, after we ate.

"Gotta have dessert," she said, smiling up at me when she was done, licking the last dribble from her lower lip.

I laughed and said, "You are something."

The rest of the day we spent with me showing her around the house, and my workshop. She was fascinated by the power tools and her eyes were big as I showed her how to crosscut with the cutoff saw handed her a scrap 2X4 so she could cut off pieces. She laughed out loud as she ripped another 2X4 on the oversized table saw, technically a cabinet saw, drilled holes with the drill press, and, generally, worked her way through my whole inventory.

I gave her my heavy leather apron after I had her take everything off, and I'm not sure I ever saw anything that just reeked more of pure sex than her standing there, pretty ass on display, as she turned a square piece of 4x4 redwood into a cylinder on the lathe.

Which led to the third time we made love. Well, to the third time I fucked her.

I closed the garage door and then went around turning on the light at each tool before I turned off the overhead lights. The image that flashed through my mind in that dark room with the pools of light from the drill press and cabinet saw and band saw and planer and the rest was a place I frequented as a teenager in Joliet, Illinois.

Pete's Pool

was in the basement of one of the old downtown buildings. There were, as I recall, two storefronts above the steps leading down, one an "antique" store if you have a very loose definition of "antique," and one a "gently used" clothing store. It was that part of downtown Joliet. Anyway, when you walked into the place the only light was from the lights over the tables.

I made a second circuit of the workshop as she watched, this time turning on each tool in turn. The low rumble of the drill press mixed with the whine of the cabinet saw a rumble in another pitch from the sander and so on until the room was a chorus of well-designed power equipment running free.

She shivered a little when I laid her hands on the planer, the big cylinder with its three heavy blades giving the machine a vibration. I felt her breath catch as I moved behind her and took her, standing, while she was bent forward a little.

This was not "making love" in any sense of that phrase. It was more like the reverse of last night. I was the toxically male man just TAKING what he wanted. Based on her cries of "YES," and the way her thighs got slick with her arousal, she liked it this way.

Spent, I supported her as she stood and then said "stay put" loud enough to be heard, all of that equipment running was pretty noisy. Then I went through the shop, turning off tools and lights before I turned on the overhead light.

Christ, she was a vision. Her long hair was tied into a loose pony tale but enough strands had escaped to give her sort of a wild look. She had on nothing but the heavy leather apron and between my semen and her natural lubricant, runnels of thick white cream ran down the inside of her thighs and had started to drip from her ankles onto the raw concrete floor. The sawdust and tiny chips from the lathe sprinkled in her hair made her look like the star in a porn film centered on a lady woodworker and the UPS driver or something like that.

And she was smiling the smile of a nun who actually sees her God.

All of this took us to about four in the afternoon.

"Okay, Baby," she said after kissing me and lifting the loop of the heavy leather apron over her head, "let's shower and then I need to get going."

"Awwwww," I said although, to be honest, I was pretty damn tired myself.

"Yes, David," she said, "I have a job interview this evening. I might get a summer gig waiting tables but the manager wants me to see how the service works."

That turned out to be the first, and one of the very few, lies she told me.

So we showered, and it was delightful. A good, sensual experience without being sexual. I particularly enjoyed the feeling of those ropes of hair as I shampooed it.

She dressed in a T-shirt and light slacks that she pulled from her train case, a magic box straight out of

Harry Potter

that seemed to have more room inside than was possible. She kissed me, and said, "Give me your phone."

She keyed in a number on my phone and I heard the answering chime from hers.

"There," she said, smiling as she headed toward her car, "you have my number. Call me if you're interested."

"Hello?" she said, "I could still see the car moving down the street."

"Just checking," I said, "making sure you didn't just give me the number to time and temp or something."

I heard her laugh as the phone in my hand went dead.

I exercised almost superhuman self-control and waited almost a full day before I called her.

"Hello," she said and her voice sounded a little clipped.

"Catch you at a bad time?" I asked.

She laughed softly and said, "No, well, yes I guess if just stepping out of the shower is a 'bad time'."

"Need someone to dry your back?" I asked.

"No, David, I don't," and again there seemed to be an odd, well, distance in her voice.

"Okay," I said, wondering what line I might have crossed, "There's a new group, well, an old group that has recently been rejuvenated, at

Danny's

, and they're making their debut on Friday. I know the guys and was wondering if you'd like to come. Dinner and some good blues music."

"It's a date," she said, "what time should I be ready?"

We worked out the details over the next few seconds. I was disappointed when she seemed a bit rushed when she said, "See you then, David, gotta run now."

For the rest of the day I did what I always do on the first day after school is done for the semester. I did nothing. I didn't even get dressed. I wallowed in sloth. Breakfast was a pair of

Pop Tarts

, strawberry, my favorites, eaten standing over the sink dressed in my briefs. The morning was spent on

Fox News

, just staring at the talking heads as I drank a beer, popped a THC gummi into my mouth, and let it slowly dissolve, getting the first tingles of a high as my blood-rich tongue absorbed the psychoactive elements from the gummi.

Lunch was the remaining half of a footlong

BMT

from

Subway

, again eaten over the sink in the same briefs. I wasted my afternoon on the Xbox, rewinning World War II although, with three beers and a gummi in me by then the outcome wasn't as clear as you might think.

Dinner was two ninety-nine cent beef pot pies, I was always partial to the cheapest pot pies, I don't know why, eaten at the coffee table using a fork for the first time that day, watching what turned into a

War of the Ring

marathon. I woke on the couch with a stiff neck, a dried crusty plate on the table, and a headache.

I laughed as I groaned.

"I DO love my after-semesterisms," I said aloud, groaning between words from the hangover, "But I'm starting to think I might be getting a bit old for them."

I took care of basic maintenance, got the coffee table cleaned off, the plate scraped and into the dishwasher, washed down an

ExtraStrength Tylenol

with a large glass of ice water from the refrigerator, and then a much-needed shower before I started in on the serious business of the between semesters break.

Wednesday and Thursday I spent in the shop, making up more sets of old-fashioned wooden storm windows and screens. In an old house like mine, each one had to be made to fit, and if you ever lost the little tags that identified which went where you were in for a very aggravating day of playing

Where Does the Window Go

when fall came. The screens weren't so bad. They were light and easy to lug around. But the windows, double hung with exterior rated glass were heavy, especially when putting them up involved climbing up on a shaky but safe aluminum ladder.

Friday was an indulgent spa day. I didn't want to admit how much I was looking forward to Jennifer, even to myself, but I was. Over the past couple of days, I had reached for my phone a dozen times to call her but then stopped, the memory of her, well, her "curtness" when I called to set up our date still gnawing at me.

So I did the spa. I had my hair shampooed and cut, nothing fancy, just a standard boy's cut that, when dry, would let my curly hair make a cap on my head. I had a mani/pedi as part of the service and a massage delivered by, and I'm not making this up, a blonde woman named Ingrid who looked like she had just stepped off of a Viking longboat ready to help plunder the village. I groaned and yelled as she twisted and dug and tortured me.

I was home at four in the afternoon and for the next two and a half hours did a passable imitation of a junior high kid on his first date. I paced. I went through my closet and fretted over what to wear. I even fussed with my hair, something I never do.

Finally, six-thirty got here and it was time to pick her up. I laughed as I pulled the CTS into the parking lot of a convenience store about two blocks from her apartment and bought a little eight-dollar bouquet from the little Mexican girl who was selling them out of the bed of a pickup while her father, looking like someone who might have ridden with Pancho Villa, looked on.

At her door, I stepped forward, kissed her, and with a flourish, handed her the little bouquet. I had decided to try, as much as possible, to mirror what she had done on our first date.

She giggled and disappeared down the hallway. I looked around and thought her apartment looked exactly what it was, student housing. Cinder blocks and 2X10 boards made up a combination bookcase, miscellaneous junk accumulation area, and TV stand on which a battered flatscreen stood. I figured she brought the TV with her when she came to college. The rest of the furniture was pure second-hand store chic with a couch, an armchair, and a small table that looked like it had been new in about 1950 with its chrome band, Formica top, and two matching chrome-legged chairs.

"Where is this mysterious

Danny's

," she asked, pulling me from my inventory.

"It's a place on the west side," I said, "where I had my first gig, actually."

"NICE ride," she said as I indicated that the CTS was mine by pushing a button on the keyfob and watching as it went through its welcoming routine, lights on since the car knew it was dark, the solid "thunk" sound as it unlocked, and the stereo started playing from my "sexy blues" playlist on my

Amazon Prime

account.

"My big splurge when I got tenure," I said, "I figured I had enough stability to keep up payments."

My hand was on the small of her back as we closed the distance to the car. When she was settled in I shut the door and then instructed her on seat controls, climate controls, and how to use the stereo while she giggled at the goodies Cadillac had poured into my little hot rod.

The CTS isn't exactly a sports car and I didn't play with gears as she had. I did enjoy the smooth operation of the six-speed manual transmission as I always did, as I worked up and down gears, making my way through traffic.

Danny's

is the lounge associated with what was originally the

Marriot Hotel

but, through the normal evolution driven by the tax code's depreciation schedule had devolved from a high-end place to a decidedly economy-class temporary lodging for convention goers since it was convenient to the airport. Still nice but not the

Ritz

. I parked in the lot and walked her to the side entrance with its awning and discreet door sign, my hand lightly on the small of her back.