Happily a Throuple

I had nothing to say to that and things went downhill from there.

For the first time since we met, well, since we started dating, she left without us having sex again. Hell, we didn't even shower together.

And that led to a miserable week. To paraphrase the Willie Nelson song, "she was always on my mind," and I couldn't concentrate.

When I damn near cut a finger off working on a new storm window I figured it was time to find a less dangerous pastime. So I opened my trusty Google Chromebook and started doing what I do best, research.

The Google search term "polyandry" brought up about a bazillion hits. There was the dictionary, of course, followed by Wikipedia. Then the general sites,

National Geographic

traced how widely it was found.

Atlantic

discussed it in that overly-intellectual way of theirs.

The journals, though, provided what I was looking for and there was plenty to work from. From the very formal studies of the

American Psychology Association

to individual monographs from my favorite compendium of professional journals

Jstor

to things in something called

The Journal of Deviant Sex

, it was easy to come up with thousands of sites.

Ultimately, my research brought me to the conclusion I had kind of casually given when Jennifer asked her question - "What about polyandry?" Polyandry made much more sense for a variety of reasons than the more common "polygamy" when group relationships were being discussed.

The ease of bringing a man to climax (you know, rub the damn thing for 30 seconds and SQUIRT) compared to the difficulty of taking a woman to orgasm was part of it.

But there was a psychological aspect I hadn't thought of. One of those stodgy, oh-so-formal journals had compared polyandry with a mother having more than one child and loving them all. Another more freewheeling journal discussed the purely physical sensations that required two men to give a woman. In that article, I learned a whole new lexicon, some of the terms complete with acronyms. Double Penetration (DP), for example, was the focus of one article in

The Journal of Deviant Sex

which went into great length on technique. It turned out a woman could be doubly penetrated using a realistic dildo, but, according to Dr. Thorsen who wrote that particular article, no woman found that as satisfying as two men being involved.

Often, it turned out, polyandry was associated with another little kink that had its own acronym, ANR. That's Adult Nursing Relationship. That particular article had my dick get hard with its almost poetic description of the "special intimacy" and "unparalleled sharing" such a relationship offered.

I learned about MFM relationships with the female (the F) being in the center of the three-way relationships, and the males (the Ms) roughly equal in status. There was the FMM relationship with the female at the top of that particular pecking order, but an "alpha" and a "beta" male as part of the "throuple," another word I learned that day. And there was the MMF relationship, much rarer as near as I could tell, with two alpha males sharing a single submissive female.

I learned of Dommes with their Subbie paramours, typically almost slaves. I learned of what I thought of as truly dangerous relationships, with a dominant female regularly hurting, hell, practically torturing one or more of her partners. In the extreme, I learned of the modern Amazons who demanded their men's balls, literally castrating them, before they would marry them

Most important, I learned that when it does work, it always includes the MM part of the MFM group becoming sexually intimate.

That presented a real problem for a completely heterosexual man like me.

But just as suddenly, I understood that I would have to overcome my, well, my aversion because if that was what Jennifer wanted, or maybe more accurately, what she

needed

, then it's what I would have to do.

I smiled as an unexpected thought came to mind - -

What the hell, you might like it.

I called her on Wednesday.

"Hello, David," she said and I could hear the distance in her voice.

"I apologize," were my first words.

"Oh?" she said and I thought I might hear a bit of softening.

"Please come on Thursday. We'll play until eleven and then you and Mark and I will sit down, share drinks, and plot our future," I kept going when she started to reply, "because, Jennifer, I can't see my future without you and if that includes Mark, we'll find a way."

"Good," she said and I could hear the smile in her voice now, "because I am having trouble seeing my future too."

"Without you in it?" I asked, trying to put all of the innocence I could muster into my voice.

She laughed her full-throated laugh, said, "You can be SUCH an asshole. See you Thursday," and hung up.

I felt better, and could concentrate then. Tuesday and Wednesday I made storm windows, carefully fit, primered, and painted them, and then practiced. It had been a while since I had been on stage so I ran through the setlist, freshening my memory with chord progressions and lyrics. At least I didn't have to master any solos with Patrick in the band.

Thursday the gig was for eight to eleven. We would do six twenty minute sets, and I had the thirty songs in my head. We would do

All Along the Watchtower

at the end of each set to give dancers time to dance to the song that, in our version with Patrick having plenty of time to improvise fresh leads between verses, would clock out at about five minutes. The crowd would be a bit tired when we took a break. It wasn't our first rodeo and I might be rusty but not THAT far out of it.

The Club was, unimaginatively named

Club 51

after county road 51 on which it was located. It was an interesting venue. The county road ran through a rural area and

Club 51

was located on a crossroads (I had suggested to Gene, the owner, that

Crossroads

would be a better name since the Club featured a lot of blues along with classic rock and roll and the concept of a crossroads where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil to be able to play the blues is big in that genre), associated with a convenience store/gas station that served the surrounding rural area. It had that same sort of rustic feel I recognized from the movie

Roadhouse

, but you didn't need Dalton or Wade Garret to keep the crowd under control.

Thursday was "singles night" at

Club 51

, so the setlist was heavy on slow and moderately fast songs, all the better to promote dancing and, well, getting acquainted.

After that initial rush of stage fright I always got when I stepped on stage, things went well. It wasn't a huge crowd, fortunately. The place had a fire rated capacity of 125, but there were maybe three dozen people there, divided fairly evenly between men and women. It was an interesting crowd. One silver-haired grandpa was, I estimated, into his 70s while at the other extreme, the younger man with whom he shared a family residence close enough that I thought they were probably grandfather and grandson, served as wingman. Or maybe grandpa was the wingman.

I watched as the younger version started chatting up a granny more age appropriate to grandpa. I thought it was kind of cute.

I was finishing our second round of

Watchtower

when Jennifer walked in.

I spotted her immediately, of course, and checked out the guy she was with, the mysterious "Mark" I presumed.

My first impression was that he was ridiculously handsome. He had the long face, straight nose, and strong jaw that made me think of Jon Hamm. His age was somewhere between Jennifer's barely legal 18 and my own 44. I guessed him at 25, certainly not yet 30.

He carried himself with an athlete's grace. His wasn't the sort of hard stepping of my own karate trained athleticism. Rather, he moved like a swimmer or a runner. More greyhound with that smooth flow of muscles that gave the dogs that incredible speed without seeming to be exerting than cheetah with that sudden bunch and explosion of muscles.

They took a table a couple of rows back from the dance floor and ordered a pitcher of beer.

When the music ended I stepped off of the stage and went to their table.

I had been practicing this scene in my mind over and over but then almost got cold feet as I approached them.

But I didn't.

"Hello, Gorgeous," I said, bending to kiss Jennifer.

"And you must be Mark," I said, bending to kiss him, a good kiss, lips meeting nicely.

"Enjoy the show," I said, smiling my best smile, the frontman's smile, "I have to mingle. Part of the gig, but we'll talk later, okay?"

Mark looked kind of surprised but Jennifer was smiling and said, "We'll be here."

I circulated through the crowd, accepting compliments, taking requests, and generally doing what a good band leader does in that kind of small, intimate venue.

I laughed when the granny I noticed earlier flashed obviously silicone enhanced boobs and, in her best Mae West voice said, "Come on up and see me sometime."

"Taken," I said and she sighed theatrically and said, "You leave me no choice. Another young man is going to get a lesson tonight."

I offered an upraised high five that she slapped hard, giggling.

We worked our way through the setlist, offering a couple as responses to requests, and then it was time to finish up.

"All right, crew," I said into the microphone, a little sweaty after our final, and even longer than usual version of

Watchtower

, "that's it for us tonight. We hope you enjoyed the show. Maybe if you talk to Gene nice we'll be back. And now listen. Ladies, if he asks if you took your pill today, you be honest now, y'hear. Don't be trying to trap any of these young men by gettin' yourself in the family way," I was leaning very hard on my southern accent today, "and y'all gentlemen, remember, no means no."

The applause started to build as I went through the final introductions, "On drums, Jimmy," and waited for one of his power riffs, "on bass, Simon," another riff, "playing lead, Patrick," a series of licks making his Telecaster sing, "and I'm Dave but if we're back it'll be Del standing in this spot. Don't worry, you'll like him."

I had that rush as the applause built and we took our bows and then left the stage.

At the table, I took a seat opposite Mark, meaning that we sat in the MFM configuration with Jennifer between us.

As I said, I had been thinking about this a lot, hell, I had been obsessing about this meeting, so I charged ahead with the script in my head.

I reached across the table, covered Mark's hand with mine, and asked, "Do you love her?"

He didn't hesitate.

"Yes," he said, meeting my eyes.

I turned to Jennifer and asked, "Do you love him?"

"Yes," she said, meeting my eyes, doing the one-eyebrow-raised thing, asking her silent question.

"Do you love

me

?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, her eyes soft now.

"I think," I said, finishing the script in my head, "that we should finish our drinks, and then go to my big old house and explore our situation."

Jennifer laughed.

"Only you, David, would describe what you just proposed as 'exploring our situation'," she said.

I smiled and said, "But it's a good idea, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said.

I turned to Mark who had been, so far, silent in this exchange.

"And you, Mark, do you think it's a good idea?" I asked.

"Honestly?" he asked.

"Nah," I said, "Lie about it."

He finally cracked a smile.

"I think it's a necessary idea because it's the only way I can see that both of us get what we want," he said.

I chuckled, said, "Fair enough," and stood.

"Okay," I said, "it's a date. Jennifer knows where I live so I'll go get the place ready while you guys finish your drink and do any talking you need to do."

I thought that was a particularly good parting line as I walked out to the CTS and headed home.

There wasn't a lot to do to "get the place ready." I have a minor case of OCD (that's Obsessive Compulsive Disorder for you folks who didn't have to take a bunch of psychology to get your degree in teaching) and tend to have a neat house at all times. I did prepare a small picnic plate with slices of apple and oranges, three kinds of salami, chunks of Meunster, Swiss, and pepperJack cheese, with three 10mg

Indica

THC gummies on the side, the ones sold as "love machine" at our local dispensary.

I scrolled through my collection of playlists, selected "Music to Make Love By," and set it running through the

Bose Wave

stereo. As Frank Sinatra started singing about how "we're drinking, my friend, to the end, of a brief episode," something he called the "grandaddy of all tavern songs" I sat to wait.

I wondered what they were talking about.

Hell, I wondered if I had blown it and I would never see Jennifer again.

I was so deeply into my own head that I jumped when the doorbell rang.

And there it was again. I was suddenly that 7th grader getting ready for his first date. I felt my heart race and got that little tingle in my legs as my adrenal glands got busy.

I opened the door and they were kissing. It was a good kiss. A Hollywood kiss. He was tall enough that her neck was bent so she could look up. Her back was arched, pressing herself into him while his hand roamed up and down her spine, encouraging her.

They broke the kiss, not jerking apart embarrassed, just breaking the kiss, and turned to face me.

Jennifer smiled and took the step to close the distance between us.

This was a good kiss too. Her tongue probed and her hands caressed my back.

When Mark joined the kiss I wasn't surprised. His lips joined ours in an awkward three-way kiss. His hand was on my back and it felt good when it wandered down to cup my ass.

"Are you as nervous as I am?" his voice had that little shake you get when your nerves are really hopping. It had taken me years to train it out of my voice or I gave a pretty good Minnie Mouse imitation on my first day with a classroom full of students.

"Ya think," I said, smiling, relaxing for the first time since they walked in.

"But kind of excited too," I said, and did the palms-on-the-cheeks thing before I kissed him.

I felt resistance, tension, and surrender. It wasn't a particularly good kiss, but it wasn't the worst I ever shared either.

And I found, to my complete surprise, my body responding. Oh, I didn't "spring erect" as I had, from time to time, with the first good kiss, but I did feel that tingle low in my belly that seemed to tighten my scrotum.

I offered the picnic spread and popped one of the gummies in my mouth before asking if they'd like a beer. I took my time in the kitchen, pouring the

George Killian's Red

beer into frozen mugs, moving slowly, and carefully, giving them time for any final talking they needed to do. Well, giving myself time to get my nerves under control.

Back in the living room, I saw the gummies were gone as I handed beers around and sat so we were in the MFM arrangement.

I won't bore you with the hour's, hmmm. What's the word? "Conversation?" "Meeting?" "Discussion?"

I won't bore you with the hour's conversation that followed. Here's a snippet - -

Me: Were you two together when we met, Jennifer?

Her: ((giggle)) Well, I met Mark a couple of days before I met you.

Mark: I didn't know anything about you until last week.

Me: ((chuckles)) Our Jennifer does know how to keep a secret, doesn't she?

((Pause while we kissed her on her cheeks))

You get the picture. In the next hour, we talked as openly as I imagine any patient talked to his (or hers I suppose) therapist. I learned of Mark's background. Where he grew up. How it was to be the youngest of six kids. How he had wound up as a gym rat and now a physical therapist in training, largely to defend himself against a sadistic older sister.

I learned more about Jennifer's background. Since we were pretty openly discussing what we knew, or at least hoped, would morph into a long-term sexual relationship, she focused on that. She told us of an abusive boyfriend who raped her when she said "no," leaving her, as she put it, "off of boys" for years while she experimented with "other" ways to get her sexual gratification.

At some point, as Jennifer was talking, and she did most of the talking, Mark and I reached an agreement. We didn't talk about it. Hell, we barely made eye contact as we paid attention to what our, well, our "bride to be" is how I was already thinking of it, was saying. But we agreed, one of those understandings that sometimes happen without either party really understanding how agreement was reached, that

this

would work.

We moved, almost as if we had practiced this. I twisted slightly to my left, facing Jennifer, as he twisted to his right, facing her on the other side. My fingers traced up his arm, feeling hard muscles under the skin with no body fat to cushion it. His fingers traced up my arm, feeling much softer skin, as we moved forward to kiss Jennifer on each cheek at once.

Our fingers met again, Mark's and mine, at the top button of her blouse. I left him to the top button and moved to the next.

As we undressed her, Jennifer kept talking. Well, let me try that one again.

As we undressed her, Jennifer tried to keep talking.

"So," she was saying, "I," ((shiver as Mark and I undid the last two buttons and opened her blouse)), "think we can, oh my," ((as Mark and I laid our hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her forward so we could get to the hooks of her bra)), "we can be together, be a couple," ((shiver as Mark unhooked her bra and I started working the button of her jeans)), "or," ((gasp as my fingers got the button loose)), "a throuple," ((soft cry as Mark and I worked her jeans down and off)), "or whatever," ((GASP as mark and I latched onto a nipple each)), "this, Oh God."

We took her, Mark and I, to some new place where she could be satisfied.

With each move, each touch, each caress our movements became more coordinated. It was as if we had practiced satisfying our woman. It seemed natural and it hit me that at least on some level, way down below where thinking was done, almost at the level of DNA and instinct, this WAS natural. It WAS instinctive. It was something known without learning. Like the spider who knows how to make its beautiful, intricate web but cannot repair a broken strand, Mark and I worked to take her along.

Our fingers touched as we slipped our middle fingers inside of her and gently opened her up.

Our hands touched and then parted as we moved them slowly down her thighs using gentle pressure to part her legs and pull, spreading them wider still.

It was natural, as if we had practiced it with a choreographer, when we scooted down, each of us taking one of her feet in our hands and kissing it.

She was breathing in very shallow little gasps by then. That beautiful scent of a woman's arousal was thick in the air. When I looked her nectar was pouring out of her pussy in little rushes as the orgasms took her in waves.

On an unspoken, unheard, hell, ununderstood cue, Mark and I began kissing our way up her legs.

I was concentrating so hard on what I was doing, I was only vaguely aware of her voice. But the closer we got to the fork of her legs the louder and more demanding she became. Mostly it was, "Yes," pause, "Yes," pause, "Oh fuck yes, like that," pause, "YESSSSSSSSSS."

My cheek was touching Mark's when we got to her nether lips. Our lips touched hers and each other's and our tongues met. It felt perfectly natural to touch his tongue with mine, the mixed tastes of her nectar and his saliva had me harder than I'd ever been.

I pulled away, drawing a soft mewing sound from her followed by a soft, "Don't stop."

I smiled and Mark, kissed him, a loving kiss, and said, "We take her together. Get on your back with her on top."