PROLOGUE
Never say never. I learned that adage at an early age and live it still, whenever I can. Its seduction invites possibilities and its mandate allows us the opportunity to discover many personal pleasures -- too many, I believe, to leave ignored or to be dismissed.
Including the sensual, as I discovered last night.
I can't say I was surprised to find myself considerably drawn to the invitation of playing willing whore to two dominant, intelligent males toward the end of last night's gathering at my friend Marc's home; I'd be lying if I tried to pretend otherwise. While it's true I possess a healthy appetite for sex and the intense pleasure it brings me, the whole of my experience in it, until last night, has been limited to the standard one man, one woman variety practiced and enjoyed by many. But that isn't to say I've never closed my eyes in the dark and willed forth the fantasy of being used by two men simultaneously, of being played and forced to submit by the combined strength of four hands, instead of two. The undivided attentions of one man alone may be enough to take a woman over the edge; allow her the attentions of two, however, of playing hostage to so much male want, and that edge no longer seems reward enough; in place of pleasure she'll find a need bordering on the visceral, in place of a rhythmic pace of desire, she'll find the chaos of sexual frenzy.
The knowledge of that is real to me now, and carnal, because I lived it and enjoyed it, took a blind step - never say never - and from that single step, found a fantasy borne.
*****
PART I
"Beth, at long last, I'd like to introduce you to James Anderson. James, this is Beth Sinclair, your hostess, and mine."
How prophetic that clever turn-of-phrase proved to be, just hours after it was spoken.
Last night's introduction of James Anderson to myself was made late in the evening by Marc Carrolli, a longtime friend mutual to us both. Marc had asked my help in hostessing a small gathering of mutual author friends he'd invited to his country home for drinks and some lively rounds of business talk, as things turned out. I'd known Marc for more than ten years, having met him while writing for his publishing house as an independent contractor right out of college. Marc and James had at one time been co-owners in Anderson-Carrolli House, a publishing venture the two had conceptualized and built together, and quite successfully. At the time of its conception James, a professor of English literature, had provided the funding for what had been Marc's dream since Marc's own college days - a publishing house, bearing his name. When Anderson-Carrolli became successful enough to begin turning a handsome profit, James Anderson had gallantly accepted his original investment back from Marc, plus interest, graciously allowing his former student and protégé' sole proprietorship of what is now known as Carrolli House.
It was while writing for Marc at Carrolli House that I first heard the name of James Anderson, and even before last night's introduction I'd always stood somewhat in awe of the man mostly responsible for Marc's successful venture into publishing. As a writer, I greatly respected Anderson's chosen profession of teaching the many nuanced elements of the written word. As an author, I admired him for his dedication in financing and establishing a business serving those like me who choose to write for their living. As a friend to Marc, I admired Anderson's belief in his friend's dreams and his loyalty in seeing them through.
And last night, as a woman finally meeting Anderson in person, I found myself admiring the sheer physicality of the man more than I'd thought possible. His photos hadn't done him justice; not even the recent ones I'd seen in Marc's personal office. In his late forties, Anderson's eyes, icy blue and beset with intelligence, had flashed with a heated curiosity upon our introduction that bordered nearly on an unspoken seduction. He wore his hair - shot through with the sexy maturity of refined silver - closely cropped, framing a chiseled face I can only define as presenting purely male. And before me, the man's towering stature had presented likewise, as well: tall and broad, commanding, and authoritatively male. His mouth, warm and inviting and framed by a fully silvered goatee, caught the lioness' share of my well-honed attentions from his very first words, and their effect on me when he spoke and bowed to me upon Marc's introduction equaled my complete and utter mesmerization with the rest of him.
"Miss Sinclair, you are radiant, both outwardly and in. You take my breath. And for this old man, that is quite the accomplishment."
And with those words, I'd been spellbound, charmed right out of my skin. For a woman who makes her own living with words, it is beyond me how I found enough of the right ones to form a response to the man's compliment.
But form one, I did, extending my hand to Anderson with the weight of his curious stare still on me.
"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Anderson. It's lovely to finally meet you. And your compliment is flattering, but its caveat unnecessary. You appear no older than Marc and myself."
The bemused expression shadowing Marc's youthful face upon my sincerely held response - that Anderson appeared no older than Marc and I - revealed much about Marc's character: we'd often indulged in a no-strings intimacy during the length of our friendship and I could read the man - who at thirty-one truly was my own age - like a well-treasured book. He could read me, too; he'd realized at once that I found James Anderson very attractive.
Marc also knew of my long-held fascination with the fantasy of ménage, and of my affinity for intelligent men. So, being possessed of that knowledge, and with my right hand still encased within Anderson's own and Anderson's attentions fully on me, I found myself quietly hoping that Marc would hold his usually outspoken opinion close to his vest, and allow my private crush on James to remain just that: privately mine.
With breath held, I waited in fear of Marc speaking aloud the question I could so easily read in his bemused expression. He took my left hand, and then shot me a sly wink and just a flash of his charmingly crooked grin.
So you're crushing on Anderson, right out of the box? Why does that not surprise me . . .
