Of Two Friends & Thirty Fingers

(C) 2002, 2004 SouthSkyEyes - All Rights Reserved

Ugh! Friday afternoon rush hour ... but today, worse than usual in this sweltering heat. All these people, trying to rush home; do they all feel burned out too? I'm constantly under the gun. By noon, I'm usually running behind. And I'm running late now, as usual. But today is different. Yes, it's Friday, and that's always a good thing. Better yet, I'm heading to my best friend's home.

I turn off the expressway, relieved to leave the stop and go traffic much earlier than usual. Best of all, this Friday evening, they've planned a special treat for me: dinner, sit up late chatting, perhaps a massage they said, and then crashing there for the night. This is something we've discussed for many months, something different to do on Fridays, whenever it works out, for the three of us. And today is the first time it's worked out.

I'm not sure if both of them will be giving me a massage. I think that's what was said. I've only had one "official" massage, this was years ago. It was a strange experience, this stranger touching me. It felt good but I got aroused, which was pretty weird. Privately, I'm nervous but mostly excited about getting a massage today.

I sigh catching site of their house. They have an average house in this neighborhood of modest suburban homes, but their home is filled with warmth. Not seeing their car, I turn into their drive and pull up. I hope someone's home. I don't get over here very often, but when I do, it's always a real treat. Their love and caring overflows beyond their relationship, pouring out and over their friends.

I pull out my bag holding my change of clothes, two bottles of wine for dinner, and the book I'm finally returning, feeling this extra weight as I climb the porch steps. The front door is open, obviously someone is home. I knock on the screen door, squinting to peek inside.

"Come in," It's Craig's voice.

I enter, seeing him rising from the dining room chair from behind his laptop, his dark hair a bit overgrown and whimsically disheveled. He's wearing blue-jean cutoffs, nothing but these very short faded cutoffs.

"Hi!" he beams, heading toward me.

Without taking my eyes off him, I set my bag down to prepare for our hug. His musculature is remarkable, in a subtle way, more like a hungry cougar than the build you get from a fitness club. I watch him stride closer, silent on his broad bare feet, moving with a striking ease and precision. He reaches for my shoulders, grasps them, pulls me closer, holds me still, and with his eyes, invites me to look into his, to see the deep joy it brings him to be with me.

He plants a quick kiss on my right cheek, as he does when greeting his close friends, men and woman alike. His right arm slips up my back, his left wraps my waist. He smooshes our bodies together in a warm embrace, from chest to thighs. The intimacy of our lingering hug reminds me of embraces with past lovers. This feels a bit peculiar but it's welcome just the same. As we begin to release our hug he reverses his arms, shifts his head to the left side of my face and we embrace again. This "double hug" is one of his rituals.

Our welcomes completed, I lug my bag along as he directs me to the recliner in the living room.

"Kick back, make yourself comfortable and relaaaaaaaax," he implores most graciously. "So you know," he offers, "Susan called a little while ago, she's running late, will get here as soon as she can, doesn't want us to wait for her."

So Susan may be a while. And there's Craig, still standing there looking at me, smiling, in his skimpy cutoffs. I plop my bag down, sit, pull off my shoes and socks, and reaching down to the right, I press the lever forward elevating my feet. Ahhhhhh. Can he tell I'm still a bit aroused from our hug? As nonchalantly as possible, I reach down into my bag, pull out the bottles of wine and hand them to him.

"Thanks, this red is my favorite," he shares, expressing the honor of my gift. "Now, what would you like to drink," he asks, glancing at my toes as he turns toward the kitchen, "coffee, tea, juice, pop, filtered water, or wine?"

Wine is what first comes to mind but I tell him water. I know I need plenty of clear fluids before a massage ... if this is still the plan, with Susan not here. I hear the pluck of a glass from the cupboard, the rattling of ice cubes the gush of the faucet as Craig explains their under-the-counter filter, and in no time he's handing me this large glass of ice water. I take a long refreshing drink.

I watch Craig return to his laptop. "Be with you in a minute ... just shutting down for the day ...," he says, almost apologetically, pausing briefly as he rifles over the keyboard, "... Susan reminded me ... you usually have a late dinner."

Craig's so thoughtful. They're both so thoughtful.

"There!" he shares, closing the screen. He returns to the living room, plopping back on the couch, letting his head drop back, stretching his legs leaving his feet resting on the coffee table. He lets out a deep sigh. A silence sets in, a rather awkward silence.

I glance up his legs noticing how his tan extends up his thighs, to his crotch. Whoa, his balls are peaking out, out from under the edge of his shorts. Does he know he's hanging out? I can't help but to notice. His skin there is a fascinating tanned deep-pink, with sparse hair, long, dark, and wiry. The bulge in his shorts is stirring. Did he catch me looking at his crotch? This is embarrassing. I take another drink of water.

My eyes land on the smooth thick pads on the bottoms of his feet. I remember his speaking of the joy of going barefoot, something like mother earth yearns for the massage of our bare feet. He's gone backpacking without shoes, for days. He had also confided once he loves going naked in nature, sunbathing on remote beaches, hiking nude on secondary trails, though he's had more than one "surprise" over the years.

As I look at him I imagine hiking along a remote trail, spotting him, in a clearing, striding toward me, wearing nothing but his backpack, his ...

"We had planned to start," Craig implores, his voice pulling me back, "with a massage ..." stopping mid-sentence, obviously waiting for my reaction.

I nod my approval, slowly, looking him in the eyes, smiling, doing my best to mask the nervousness and excitement. I cringe realizing I've continued nodding to the point of overstating my approval.

He continues, without question very pleased I've accepted the offer, "... once you've had a chance to catch your breath ... and shower off. The table's set up in the back room, and there's a wash cloth and towel setting out in the bathroom ... so as soon as you're ready. Oh yes," he adds, "you'll need to keep the bathroom door open a bit, we've moved the cat's litter box in there."

I thank him and nervously gulp down my water, seeing his dimpled smile through the distortion as I tip the glass to finish it. I climb out of the chair, grab my bag and head into the bathroom, leaving the door half-open. I strip, start the water, and stuff my clothers into the end of my bag, glancing into the hallway. I reach down and turn the lever to shower, looking back to the doorway, imagining Craig passing down the hall, casually looking in at me as I wait for the temperature to stabilize.

I hear Craig opening the front screen door. It sounds like Susan's home, Craig, greeting her, "Hi hon ... yep, already here ..."

So Susan's here. I step into the shower, pull the shower liner closed, keeping the outer curtain to the side, and give in to the pleasurable pulsating on my shoulders. There's such a joy about Susan, in her hardy east-European stockiness, her laugh, and her blue eyes, beaming from under her gold-spun "wildwoman" hair.

Sharing a lingering bear hug with Susan is something special; the remarkably firm grasp of her hands, her breath on my neck, the plushness of her breasts, her belly pressing into mine. It leaves me warmed when we hug, and sometimes quite aroused, and Susan too, if the perk in her nipples is any indication. This seems pretty strange, especially when Craig's present. Does he notice this? I wonder.

I turn with my back to the curtain and lather my groin, feeling a strong urge to masturbate as I imagine being sexual with Susan. I imagine peeking around their bedroom door, finding her lying back, in bed, naked, alone. She beckons me with her eyes. I come upon her, straddling, on hands and knees, peering into her eyes, glazed, fathoming the unimaginable to unfold. I luxuriate over her, longingly, nuzzling her neck, kissing at her underarms, teasing her nipples to my lips, nibbling down her soft belly. She parts her legs inviting me to explore her secrets. I graze upon the hair of her mound. Her mysterious essence tantalizes me, bringing an excitement I am unable to contain. I ...

"Hi ..." I frieze hearing Susan's voice, "... glad you're here," sounding as though she's peeking into the bathroom.

Maybe it's best I stop masturbating even through having an orgasm will certainly take the edge off as I get a massage from Susan. From Susan and Craig, that is. I slip my fingers back down. It's a very good idea to have an orgasm before getting this massage.

"Are you almost ready?" I frieze again hearing Craig's voice. "The room's all set ... we'll be in the living room ... call out when you're ready."

I realize I need to just hurry up and finish my shower. As I scrub my feet I'm surprised by how difficult it is to keep my balance. Finished, I step out noticing the door stirring. It's just their cat. I dry off, wrap the towel to cover me the best I can, grab my bag, and dart down the hall into the back room. I climb onto the low-set massage table, lie face down on the white sheet, nervous, aroused, and call out to them, letting them know I'm ready, well, as ready as I will ever be.

An isolated breeze swoops through the window. It cools my damp back. I realize I've forgotten to cover my butt. I strain to reach the towel I've left on the chair, to reach it without getting up. It's too late, Craig and Susan are about to enter. I return my arms to my sides. I'm as stiff as a board.

"I see you're ... ah ... ready for us," Susan shares, attempting to mask her obvious surprise in the most gracious way.

"I'll take this end," Craig says to Susan, "you take that end hon."

"You sure about that?" Susan inquires, with the same tone of surprise in her voice.

"Yep," Craig affirms.

I close my eyes. I want to know which of them is at my feet; will Craig's hands be running up my thighs or will it be Susan's. I'm not sure which scenario I welcome the most, most desire, in my state of arousal, with both of them present. I try to relax, but with little success as I listen to them priming their hands with oil.

In a moment of sheer pleasure, warm hands greet my upper back and the base of both calves. Their hands are so similar I can't distinguish who's who. A shiver races through popping one of the vertebra between my shoulder blades. Oooohhh. They slide their slick hands toward each other, slowly, firmly, one pair down my back, from my shoulders to the base of my sacrum. The other pair up my legs ending with a sustained press on my butt. Ahhhhh. My shoulders have loosened, the tension in my thighs is waning.

Over the course of a several minutes, the slow sensuous dance of their fingers progresses to my sides. I squirm as fingers run over my ribs while the others slip up the outer edge of my legs.

After a brief pause, they reverse the progression of their stroking, their fingers pressing even deeper as they edge toward the meridian of my body. Thumbs greet my scalp at the top of my spine, pressing firmly to trace each vertebra in a long bumpy run down my spine, halting at the ridge of my tailbone.

I tense to the firm touch on the inside of my heels, of thumbs steadfast in coaxing my legs apart. A short silent bout ensues. I yield, letting my legs spread a bit, to what I know are friendly intentions. But feeling their thumbs slip up my legs brings forth an eerie rush. The taste of surrender fills my mouth. I've given in ... but, by the flare of my nostrils, I tell you it feels so damn good! As their thumbs slip up onto my thighs, I spread my legs further, inviting them, daring them to plunge deep into my loins. They do not disappoint me, leaving my creases generously oiled as their thumbs slip up, converge on my tailbone, then streak playfully across my butt.

I'm really, really, curious now to know whether it's Susan or Craig at my feet. But I keep my eyes shut letting my imagination run through a few scenarios. They commence to repeat their pattern of stroking though not slipping so close to my groin. I slowly give into the soothing experience of their touching, my arousal subsides and I drift into a sweet twilight sleep.

I wake to the hushed tone of their voices, to my right. I'm physically relaxed but my groin stirs in arousal.

Susan, near whispering, asks me, "Are you ready to turn over ... "

I cringe.

Craig, continuing the question, in a most friendly tone, " ... and have us finish what we've started?"

Keeping my eyes shut, I nod, affirming I'm ready, even though I'm not. I don't know if they intend to pleasure me in a sexual way but I secretly desire this. I take a few deep breaths, gathering my courage, and roll over and lay back. My face flushes hot. My body stiffens as a flood of goosebumps comes over me. I fight the strong urge to cover my privates with my hands, I don't want to expose my embarrassment to be seen naked by them. To my surprise, they drape a cloth over my eyes. I'm not sure why - perhaps they know it's best I don't know who is who - but I welcome it.

Their oiled hands return to my body; fingers press soothingly on the sides of my head, my soles warm from the palms of hands grasping my feet in a firm hug. They maintain this firm hold on me, melting away most of my anxiety. I lay silent, my arousal subsides, my embarrassment eases, my legs and arms start to relax again.

Without warning, their hands begin stirring. Fingers explore the features of my face, while the others pleasure my toes in the most sensuous ways. I shudder, my skin tingles. I ask them without words to pleasure me in a sexual way. Their touching and stroking and caressing in unison brings a wonderful experience of being kept on-the-edge, that perfect balance between soothing and pleasuring.

Slowly, with such care and intention, their fingers draw forth an ascent of arousal I have never experienced. Their hands move over me in longer and longer strokes, their fingertips soothing, teasing, pleasuring my flesh, as they draw closer and closer to my blood-rushed privates. I spread my arms, palms up. I shift my legs, bending my knees, letting my feet dangle, letting my bottom spread wide.

In a moment of courage, I move my fingers to my groin and start masturbating. My friends accommodate my shameless indulgence, adjusting the course of their slick fingered dervish, intermingling with my fingers with each swoop at my groin, before retreating for another run of pleasure. My arousal gushes, whetting my fingers, which I delight in smearing over my hot parts.

In a flash of pleasure and desperation, I release my fingers to unleash a frenzy upon my engorged genitals. My body thrashes over the pleasure of two friends and 30 fingers. My head whirls, enthralled with the pleasuring, and the tell-tale rush that my release is eminent. In a timeless passage of raw primal pleasure, pulse after upwelling pulse erupt from deep within, convulsing, heaving me, gripping my face, as wave after wave after wave pass through. My friends place their fingers on my trembling hands, calming my fingers still pressed to my privates, feeling the last waves of my release pass through. My body goes limp. I sigh with each swoop as I relish the slow sweet descent into bliss.

I wake to the smell of chicken and a warm breeze crossing my belly. My mind runs through the events as I get up, get dressed, and slip into the bathroom to pee and wash up a bit. I feel a bit strange, a bit timid as I walk toward the living room. What will I say? What will they say?

Craig catches site of me, "Hey ... hope you had a good rest," he offers, almost nonchalant, but warmly.

Susan's voice beams from the kitchen, "Dinner's nearly ready, will you two help ... the chicken needs to be carved, and the table set, and the wine opened too."

I offer to open the wine and set the table. Craig starts carving the chicken. The two of them chat freely about the plans for the evening but I still feel a bit sheepish, not knowing what to say, not knowing what should remain unsaid.

I watch Craig extract the wishbone, hold one end of it, and offer Susan the other, saying, "make a wish." There's a snap and Craig smiles, holding the victor's share in his fingers.

He glances over at me, grinning, returns his eyes to Susan, and quips, "OK ... the next time the three of us get together ... "