On First Impressions: Non-Verbals...

Let me think now, where's a good place to start? How about a little background? Amy and I are in our late 30's, married for 15 years, no kids, no ticking biological clock and a nice suburban, two-income life style. There have never been any serious problems within our relationship. We have fun together, and we enjoy the solitude provided by the occasional business trip. Sex? Oh that's always been good, although I confess that I was clueless about the potential for it getting better. But that's the point of this story so keep listening

As far as I'm concerned, Amy's a dish with short blonde hair and relatively firm boobs. Her ass is perfectly rounded, tapering into a modest waistline; and at the juncture of her pretty thighs is a neatly trimmed pussy that I can bury my nose in for hours. Does she turn heads and attract the comments of construction workers when she walks down the street? Sure, but only when she wants to. Maybe she'd be categorized as just household beauty, but there's no doubt about her ability as a world class flirt. When she makes up her mind to sell it, she can find plenty of buyers. I've watched her work the room at a party, and admired the way she can charm the figurative pants off her boss or any guy she finds interesting; and then somehow fly under the radar of Larry the Lounge Lizard. What about me you say? Okay, I could lose a few pounds. But I can still flirt with the twenty-somethings at the Y and not hear them giggle when my back is turned (of course, the Y is a noisy place). Basically, we're a couple of pre-middle aged DINKs (dual income, no kids) contentedly charging through life. So why am I bothering with this little tale? Be patient, sit back and relax. I think you'll find it worthwhile.

As I said before, sex has always been good and very often great. No, we're not on the cutting edge of any New Age sexual movement. We have reached the point where any desire for a mirrored ceiling in the bedroom is negated by a mutual concern for undiscovered cellulite. Not that it would enhance our couplings anyway as age-related myopia would probably limit our ability to distinguish various body parts anyway. But we do manage an impulsive slap and tickle more than once a week; the drawer in the bed stand contains a tidy little supply of scented or flavored lubes, vibrators and other assorted love toys; and the VCR has been host to a number of X-rated productions that simultaneously feed the imagination, the libido and a body orifice or two. No doubt about it, technology is a good thing!

In one of those classic "behind closed doors" scenarios, Amy likes to watch porn, but she's too embarrassed to be seen renting one. More than once, I've been delighted to discover that a particularly pleasing move or utterance during sex is reminiscent of something from "Behind the Green Door" or "Centerfold Girls." We even have a private little system for rating the appeal of the movies we rent, call it "Final Minutes." That's the number of minutes that remain in the movie when we've reached the point that we're too turned on to just watch any more. By that barometer, Marilyn Chambers' "Insatiable" is the all-time champ. Please don't ask me how it ends, we've never made it that far. Marilyn, you have no idea how times you've vicariously gifted me with a world class fuck.

But bedroom vixen that she is, Amy just doesn't feel comfortable with the notion of standing in the middle of the store trying to decide between "The Houston 500" or one of Hypatia Lee's plot-driven extravaganzas. That's not a problem for me though, browsing through the racks at the suburban sex emporium is like a trip to the museum. That is, if the museum had neon signs advertising "X-rated Movies" and "Live Nude Girls." And I've yet to encounter a museum that lets you preview the artwork in a solitary booth that reeks of cheap disinfectant; or one where you can converse on the phone with a provocatively naked female artist as she plays with her genitalia on the other side of a Plexiglas window. But then I digress. So it was that I passed beyond the neon on a mission of discovery.

Resisting the urge to invest ten bucks with the naked cutie in the conversation booth, I made my way straight to the video rental racks. Two of the customers seemed intent on not making eye contact with me, one seemed to be following my movements just a little too closely and then there was the day's comic relief; a paunchy bald guy clad in black leather vest, with chains strategically placed in areas too uncomfortable to consider. He seemed particularly interested in the collection of restraints and whips behind the counter, studying them like the fine connoisseur he probably imagined himself to be. The pierced little punkette behind the counter was ringing up a sale of magazines to one of the "you never saw me in here" types when the relative quiet of the store was interrupted by a loud smack, immediately followed by a startled shriek from the sales girl. It seems that Lonnie of the Chains and Leather had taken it upon himself to come around the counter to sample the flexibility and feel of the $39.95 riding crop. Kinky Brewster was neither amused nor pleased. The string of obscenities that escaped her mouth left so little to the imagination that even Mr. Master Wannabe got the message and beat a hasty retreat to his battered Dodge Neon in the parking lot.

I was still chuckling to myself when I presented my membership card and two feature cassettes to the steaming clerk. "That son of a bitch" she snarled, "who the hell does it think he is? And who the hell does he think I am?" "He obviously had you pegged as being a little more compliant" I said. "Well he blew that call" she responded with a softening voice. I was expecting a renewal of the vocabulary lesson she'd provided so far, however I was now receiving a learned discourse on the psychological nuances of bondage and discipline (not to be confused with Sado-Masochism mind you, as that merits an entirely different examination all together). The contrast between her academic speech pattern and her punk appearance was stunning. And I began to sense that she was a little older than originally thought. Then there was the eye contact, the kind that suggests that you're being evaluated and things are going well. It was one of those little 60 second flirtations that puts a spring in a happily married man's step, but goes no where. Call me provincial, but I just couldn't get past the piercings. Pierced ears are almost commonplace, and a little navel jewelry has always fascinated me. But this chick had one through the nose, one in her cheek and heaven knows what other body parts had been invaded. Maybe I have this fear of cutting my tongue on some wayward bit of body jewelry. That's okay for teen fantasies, but just not my style in real life.

Returning to the office, I called Amy and, getting her voice mail, left a message suggesting that she prepare herself for an evening of video- inspired fucking. The beauty of modern day voice mail is that you can conduct an almost day long session of phone sex, just by taking turns leaving one message after the other. Of course if you enjoy that type of thing, it's not recommended to use your speakerphone when retrieving messages. How do you explain to the cleaning people that the stain on the carpet is the result of the copier repairman walking by the open door as you retrieved your messages? Was it my fault that he dropped the toner cartridge?

Later that afternoon, my message light was blinking with a message from Amy reminding me that she was to meet her psychology class study partner after work, that there would be three for dinner and "maybe we can watch the movies tomorrow night." The way in which she purred the last part of the message did little to assuage my disappointment, but what's a sensitive guy of the 21st century supposed to do?

The girls arrived home, in full chatter mode, a little after 8:00. The broiled chicken and pasta was almost ready, and I was on my third glass of red wine. Amy's friend Lynne looked vaguely familiar and her method of eye contact would have been more than encouraging had I been sitting by myself in a hotel bar - but this was home, with my wife. In any case, she was generally attractive, a little younger than Amy, petite with the type of long dark hair that practically screamed "take me from behind and use this as a bridle!" Dinner conversation was spiced with numerous references to psych class and other academic topics, when out of the blue, Lynne turned to me and asked whether it was the performance of Lisa Ann or Anna Malle that attracted me to the "Air Erotica" video. So much for my cool, I used the presence of a single piece of pasta in my mouth to buy the time needed for formulating a semi-intelligent response. Amy seemed unaffected by the sudden change of topic, and Lynne was obviously determined to wait out a response. "Well… " I mumbled through my napkin, "for my money, I think that Lisa Ann is one of the most attractive ladies in porn today." How's that for a combination of nonchalance and intelligent banter? Yeah… you're right, it sucked!

Obviously not content with my answer, Lynne pressed the issue. "Bu t don't you think that Anna Malle brings a feral quality to any performance she gives? Hell, I've seen her take on two men, while another woman sucks her nipples and still look hungry! By this time I was struggling with the effects of my fifth glass of wine, the improbability of this entire conversation and the sly grin on the face of my lovely wife. Finally a light went on in my feeble brain and an image began to form. Spike up the hair a bit; add a couple facial piercings, the promise of a few more, and you had… the punkette from Erotirama! The women dissolved into conspiratorial giggling as I tried to resolve the images in my mind. Enlightenment was slow in coming, however it basically revolved around the fact that Lynne worked the sex shop by day and studied for her Master's in Psychology by night. The piercings were magnetic, and the rest of the look was by design, intended to entice, yet repel the various denizens of the store. But it was all - well, most of it - temporary or removable.

It seems that the incident with Mr. Leather had come up during their project conversation. They were trying to decide on a topic that dealt with abnormal relationships (using the 80-year-old professor's definition of abnormal of course). Lynne had suggested an exploration of the thesis that in order to be a good master, one should spend a little time laboring as a fine slave. Her memory thus jogged, she then realized that Amy and I shared the same last name. A few discreet questions later, my wife learned of incident at the shop this morning, right down to the casual flirtation. I began to relax with the realization that at least part of the conversation would be sexual this evening, possibly leading to a refreshing bout of foreplay and afterplay with some intense fucking in between - after Lynne left.

The dishes made it to the kitchen, another bottle of wine was opened, and we moved our conversation to the living room. As one would expect, through her job at the Erotirama, Lynne had a more than a few stories to tell. The fantasy booths provided more than their share of inspiration from tales of over or under-sized penis's, a personality profile of the types of girls that worked there (trust me, you don't want the details on that), to the couples that routinely violated the one person to a booth rule to indulge in assisted groping. The phrase "get a room" now has an entirely new meaning for me. I was particularly interested to know about some of the feature performers that made autograph appearances from time to time. Jenna Jameson? Lynne had little nice to say about her. Ginger Lynn on the other hand could not have been more gracious or sexy. And all it would take for her to give up men forever would be a simple bent finger from the hand of Marilyn Chambers, not that there was any imminent chance of Marilyn giving up men. Yes indeed, Lynne was a fountain of porn opinion and knowledge.

I was so taken with the conversation, that it was some time before I realized that her delicate fingers were tracing patterns on my wife's bare leg. When did Amy notice? I can't say for sure. She'd never really admitted to a curiosity about making love with a woman, but sometimes she'd remark on the potential absence of panties on a suspiciously smooth butt. Her own standards for sex appeal in other women always did seem to be rather well defined, and then there is the way that she watches those Marilyn Chambers movies. But this was moving down a slippery slope, and fast. It was Amy who shoved everything over the edge with the observation that "I've never been quite so turned on by a woman until tonight." Lynne's reaction erased any further discomfort as she smiled knowingly and remarked "that's interesting, I've never really been turned on by a couple, like I am tonight." I began to think that my personal definition of "group hug" was about to be altered forever. Somewhere in the back of my head, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir was performing the "Hallelujah Chorus", with solos by Tony Bennett, Rod Stewart, Annie Lennox, Madonna and Ann-Margret.

If any doubt remained, it was banished when Amy leaned towards me kissed me on the lips and said "you've no idea how wet she's made me." Simultaneous with this, she was parting her legs in encouragement of the climb that Lynne's hand was making across her thigh. Unlike many of the movies that Lynne had rented to me, the clothes didn't just magically melt away. We undressed each other, with plenty of kissing and stroking until there were no more items to remove. With a classic finger before the mouth "be quiet" signal, Lynne removed words and speech from the exercise. Instinct took over, and tactile responses gained prominence. While standing, Lynne took Amy's face and brought their lips together in a soulful kiss, the sight of which caused my cock to grow longer and harder than it has ever been. Somewhere through the wine and the lust, a voice in my head reminded me that whatever happened, Amy was the one that I'd be sharing home and hearth with and to make her comfortable throughout. It was a prudent thought for such a decidedly non-puritanical moment.

I guided Lynne's hands over Amy's body, up and down her sides, around the curve of her ass and back up to her breasts. Lynne's mouth and tongue danced with Amy's. We wordlessly negotiated a pact that designated Amy as center of our sexual universe for that moment in time. And Amy was clearly enjoying it. She seemed sensitive to every last nuance, every stroke, every pet; parting her legs slightly to allow us to take turns stroking the edge of the thin strip of pubic hair that celebrated her pussy.

With a subtle signal from Lynne, I sat back on the couch, stroking my cock and enjoying the view of these two beautiful women making sensual contact with each other. I needn't remind myself that patience on my part would earn a wonderful reward. The person that wrote that Carly Simon tune "Anticipation" had to be the third wheel of a three-way screw. After a period of kissing and fondling, getting to know each other's bodies, Lynne maneuvered Amy in front of me. I became her chair. With her back to me and my cock snuggled firmly between her ass cheeks, my arms encircled her. Lynne sat back on her haunches, admiring the view as I massaged her tits while nuzzling and kissing her neck. Amy's always loved this kind of treatment, but this time her moans and purrs had new intensity. Unfazed by her sudden transition from lover to spectator, Lynne waited, her fingers lightly stroking the cleanest shaved pussy I've ever seen. She seemed content to watch until I offered a breast to her. Moving with almost animal-like grace, she applied her mouth to Amy's nipple and began to suck. The reaction was almost instantaneous, and only later did I learn that Amy had experienced a near-orgasm with that first mouth to nip contact.

It was as if I had taken over Amy's body. Her hands rested on my knees, her head rotating atop her neck as I fed Lynne first one breast and then the other. She became my marionette but rather than moving her to dance or perform, I was making her body available to a new lover. I don't know which woman was becoming more charged, Amy's euphoria was obvious, but the hunger in Lynne's eyes coupled with the slurping sounds coming from her mouth left little doubt that she was enjoying this equally as well. As Lynne's mouth moved down Amy's body, so did my hands, until I was parting the pussy lips that I had licked and nibbled so many times before. Only now, the tongue that was headed for them was that of a woman.

Forget that Amy is a business woman and college student, often concerned by what other people think. This woman is supremely sexual, and her appreciation of Lynne's oral attentions left no doubt of that. With the right combination of tongue and our favorite Little Beaver dildo, I've brought Amy to more than one quick orgasm, but none as intense, none as swift or seemingly debilitating as the one that Lynne gave her. Feminine tongue, feminine vulva married in a frenzy of heat and moisture. Amy's body stiffened almost immediately as Lynne's tongue plunged into the silky depths made open by my trembling fingers. I have no way of knowing how her tongue explored that pussy that I knew (thought I knew?) so well. Amy would later say that she was touched in places that she didn't know existed prior to that. But lick and suck she did, and when the release arrived I'm sure her screams of pleasure were heard throughout the 20-story collection of condos that we call home.

As if to say, "I don't want you to feel left out," Lynne eventually moved from between Amy's legs and brought her lips to mine. Her cheeks fairly gleamed with my wife's juices, and I could taste her fluid on the tongue of her new adoratrice. Gathering her post-orgasmic composure, Amy moved to take on a more directive role. As Lynne and I kissed, she slid down to take my cock between her lips. Sucking me deep into her mouth, she left no doubt in my mind that her new found sapphic enjoyment would in any way distract her from more traditional sexual pursuits. Not that Amy has ever tossed me a courtesy fuck or two, but I can tell when she's sucking me out of enthusiasm or obligation, and this was unmatched enthusiasm. My cock had become the tastiest stick of hard candy confection ever made. Lick it? She didn't lick it; she stripped it of any and all dead skin cells with her tongue. Sucking? Oh my God… to paraphrase the old cliché, had my cock been a trailer hitch she would have sucked off the chrome and the anchor bolt!

This was unlike anything I'd ever experienced, and there was more. Amy's mouth disengaged before I had a chance to cum and she led me to the other end of the couch where Lynne had retreated to play with herself while watching us. No need for suggestion or negotiation again, as we approached, Lynn's legs parted in an invitation so overt and welcoming as to give me pause to wonder whether my cum would begin with my cock in Amy's hand or buried in Lynne's snatch. As my arms reached down to steady myself over Lynne, Amy's hand guided my cock to its reward, stuffing me into Lynne's shaved pussy with almost practiced skill. Fifteen years is a long time to park Mr. Johnson in the same garage. But even with the long hiatus, this new tunnel was something well beyond simply warm and inviting.

Lynne held her legs open by grasping her knees and while Amy played the clit at the top of her pussy like a fine guitar. Guiding my cock in and out her pussy, my mind was awash with the sensations that were building me to my most powerful release ever. The look in Lynne's eyes was one of pure lust, and in a moment of unfettered intellectual silliness, I deduced that she had always enjoyed cocks as well as pussy, or vice versa. Hell, who cares? She was delivering world class love making, and it was my cock that was about to blow.