On the Beach

Muriel recalls her first time with Meg and Ben.

Thanks to LarryInSeattle. Any errors that remain I snuck past him.

Enjoy.

Comments, even negative anonymous ones, are welcome when offered constructively.

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Ben doesn't say anything. He pulls the faded polo shirt, steps out of his flip flops, and pulls his shorts off. His cock is hard and beautiful. He stops suddenly, looking chagrined.

"I'm sorry. I should have asked if I could join you. I don't mean join you, join you, just come in and watch."

Meg starts to cry. Ben hurries forward and I step back to give him room.

"I'm sorry, babe. I should have given you some privacy. Don't cry. I'll wait for you downstairs. We can talk later. Don't cry. Ssh, now. I'm sorry."

Meg hits him on the chest with the flat of her hand. He looks stunned. I'm curious, no point denying it, but I wonder if I should be here. I'm horny for both of them but it is clear to me that the two of them have some issues to settle. I'm not sure I want to jump into that pile of grief.

"Quit saying you're sorry," Meg shouts at him. "What are you sorry for? I'm the one cheating on you. For fuck sake. Jesus."

"I don't feel like you're cheating on me," Ben starts but Meg hits in the chest again.

"Are you fucking kidding me? You walk in on me in a shower sucking a woman's nipple and you don't think that's cheating?"

Ben takes a hold of the wrist of the hand she's smacking him with and my body tenses. I see anger in Meg's face but no pain. When she pulls at her wrist, he let's go. I relax, but only a little. I run through my options for a graceful exit and cannot think of a single one.

"Stop hitting me." Ben's voice is pitched in that careful tone one uses with an out of control child.

"Don't talk to me like I'm Jill," Meg hisses but keeps her hands clutched between her breasts.

I reach behind her and turn off the water.

"Ben, you mind if I use one of your towels?"

He shakes his head.

"Thanks," I say with a nod.

I realize, for me, there is no exit from this mess. I didn't start it, not entirely anyway, but I'm already too involved to just walk away. If they tell me to get lost, that's different. But, if they're willing, I'll do what I can to help, even if in the end walking away is what's best.

"Look you two, this is none of my business, beyond the fact I've gone and stuck myself in the middle of it. For what it's worth, here's my advice." I turn to Meg. "I don't think he was patronizing you, honey. He was being careful to not upset you more. And," I add more firmly, "you were the one hitting him. Did he hurt your wrist? Squeeze it?" I ignore Ben's look of protest.

"No," she whispers. "He'd never hurt me."

"I didn't think so." I turn to Ben. "Take your shower while Meg collects her thoughts. If you two still want to, come over to my place in a few minutes. We'll have dinner. I'll put you to work helping. Massage therapist are like bartenders and barbers; we hear more than we care to but it gives us a bit of perspective. If either of you have an interest in my view of this, come on over." I pause and shake my head. "No, I take that back. Not either of you, it's both or none. I'll wait a half-an-hour; after that I'll assume I'm having dinner on my own."

I kiss Meg on the cheek. I do the same to Ben and walk out. I forgo the towel. The late afternoon sun is plenty warm as I walk back to my house as the gulls dip and dive to see if I've anything to offer.

-----

I pour the last glass of chardonnay from the bottle after I slip on a pair of bikini bottoms and an old tee shirt. There's no point I can see in pretending sex isn't something we'll need to talk about, assuming they show up. Despite the drama, I'm turned on. My pussy is wet. I can feel it as I walk. The sensation keeps me excited. I really like these two. They seem like a couple of kids playing at being grown up, though I know from the rental agreement that Meg is only a few years younger than me. On the other hand, who the hell needs the drama? I got plenty to keep me occupied.

I go out onto the deck, sit and listen to the ocean. There's something about its never ceasing, never repeating, motion that I find soothing. Why unending motion would be soothing is a paradox I no longer trouble myself over.

I open my eyes to the sound of creaking stairs. It's Meg. Seeing the look on my face, she holds up a hand.

"Ben's coming. He's rummaging around for a shirt."

Meg has a light sundress on. It's more of a beach cover up than a sundress. I'm pretty sure she has not bothered with a bra either.

"He doesn't need a shirt."

"He thinks he does."

"And you?"

She considers it.

"I thought you wanted to talk about this together?"

"I do," I answer, irritated at having my own thoughts turned on me. "I'm also interested in what you, just you, think."

"I want to make love to you," she says simply.

"And if Ben doesn't like that idea?"

"I hope he will."

I sit forward but don't touch her. "I'd like to make love to you too, very much." Now, I touch the back of her hand. "But I won't play the home wrecker role, as much as I want you, I don't want that on my conscience. If Ben's okay, great. If Ben wants to join us, assuming that is okay with you, it's fine by me." I take a sip of my wine. "I don't think he's particularly interested in making love to me. He's yours to keep or walk away from. That's a helluva thing to have on your shoulders, honey, but I think I'm right about it."

The sound of the patio door sliding closed next door prevents her answer, assuming she has an answer. Ben is wearing a plain blue pocketed tee and a pair of gym shorts.

"He says he loves my bare pussy," Meg whispers as her husband crosses the back yard.

He's bare-footed. He stops at the top of the stairs and brushes his feet off before joining us on the deck. I note the fact with approval. I like a thoughtful man.

I go inside and they follow. I set them to the mindless tasks that go into getting dinner ready. The tasks don't require much thought but they do require cooperation. They work smoothly together, not speaking. Good.

Momma would have turned up her nose at the dinner I've made. She was a fan of simple food. There wasn't anything fancy about poached fish, steamed snow peas and rice pilaf but momma would have had none of it. There wasn't a fried thing on the table. Sacrilege, in momma's view of dinner. Plus, there wasn't any beer. I'd open another bottle of the chardonnay but keep the bottle near me. We're after a bit of veritas but in vino veritas might be too much too soon.

I break one my most sacred rules and stack the dishes by the sink without washing them. I ease my guilt by recalling something that English poof had said about foolish consistency. I have Ben and Meg help me move the couch, chairs and coffee table. If not for the area rug, it would like we were getting ready to have a dance or a game of Twister. It's been years since I've played nude twister. I push the thought away.

I toss a couple scarves over the table lamps, turn them on and turn off the overhead lights. I leave the glass door to the patio open. It's not too cool and I want to hear the ocean. I pour some wine into everyone's glass and give them their first and only instruction for the rest of the evening.

"Please try not to spill wine on my rug."

Ben sets his atop the pushed back coffee table. "That's okay, I don't need any more wine."

"Oh for Christ sake, Ben," Meg sighs. "If you spill a little wine we'll have to pay for the cleaning. Muriel isn't going to call the police, file suit or even call your mom. Please, stop worrying you'll get 'in trouble'. You're a grown man, with a wife and three kids. A good man who works hard, keeps his temper and pays his bills on time. Relax."

It's clear her words cut him. She starts to say something and then stops.

"Meg's right, mostly. I might file a suit though, if the stain doesn't come out." I reach between them and grab three pillows off the couch. I lay them down in the middle of the floor. I look around and decide it's still too light. I turn off one of the table lamps. The orange scarf casts a soft light over the room.

"On your backs," I tell them and lay down with my head on one of the pillows. They follow suit. "Closer, I want our heads to touch."

They do as I ask.

"Now, for the hard part. Relax. Listen to the ocean. Try not to think."

I follow my own instructions and let my mind wander. I listen to the rush and crash of water that journeyed across the galaxy to get here.

"Have you heard," I begin, whispering into the night with my eyes closed, "that most of the water on our little planet came from space?" Someone mutters a "uh-huh". I think it's Ben but Meg's voice is low and throaty. It could have been her. "I think about that sometimes. I wonder, where the molecules of water in that sip of wine have been. How many times have they been to the bottom of the ocean? How many years did they float in the clouds before they fell back to earth? Did they do the same on some other little planet? If they did, how did they get here? I hope they simply floated too high and drifted away into space before the faint gravity of some passing comet drew them in close. I like that scenario better than one in which the beautiful little planet gets smashed to bits and part of it came here for rebirth, but in the end it doesn't matter. Think on it, how many stories float around in that one little sip of wine."

I almost chant the words. I'm letting my mind flow where it will, hoping my friends will follow.

"I'm not afraid of getting in trouble," Ben's voice fills the silence that hovers near the floor. The ocean sounds far away now. "I'm not a coward. I'm not fucking John Wayne but I'm not a coward either. I don't like being called one. What I want is to do the right thing. I don't believe in God or Original Sin but I do believe our curse is that we are selfish, all of us. I try not to be. That's all."

"Ya'll like Woody Allen?" I ask. It doesn't matter if they do or don't. "I do, the old Woody Allen anyway. In one of the movies, there's a silly scene where everyone keeps saying, 'no, it's a greater honor for me' and nothing gets done. Now, I happened to agree selfishness is an ugly thing. But let's pretend all three of us love chocolate truffles and there's only one. If all we care about is being unselfish, that chocolate will set there until a gull swoops in and gobbles it up. It's selfish, isn't it, to imagine only I should be the one to give? Shouldn't my partner have the right to give as well? And, I'm not saying this is you, Ben cause I don't think it is, but there's a great risk that our giving becomes selfish, that in its essence it becomes a way of saying 'look how good I am'. I think that's why Jesus suggested we pray in a closet and not on a street corner."

"No," Meg's voice is soft. "Ben isn't playing the martyr. He's never been like that. He's always been so kind and thoughtful. Even when we were kids, it made me want to scream, always having to live with Mr. Perfect. It was exhausting. I've never asked him but I think he knew, somehow, I was pregnant in college. He didn't ask me. He didn't wait for me to say something. You know what he did?"

"No, sweet one, I don't," I answered.

"He asked me to marry him. He asked me to elope. Tried to get me to drive across the country to Las Vegas and get married. I knew, knew in my heart, he'd figure out I was pregnant and wanted to make it so it wouldn't seem like that was the reason he was asking."

"It wasn't," Ben interrupts. "But I knew you, you who questions everything, would believe that was the reason. I decided after our second date I was going to marry you. I spent the next couple years trying to figure out how long, exactly, we had to date first before you wouldn't spend weeks examining the proposal from every direction, looking for the catch, the flaw in the idea. I was afraid you'd run off and do something silly, something that you'd regret and I wanted to marry you anyway, so I asked. And I got you and Mark, and Bill and Jill."

I don't know if Meg heard it but I did. I heard Ben draw in a breath. He had more to say but he let the breath escape on a sigh and did not speak. In the coming the years I would wonder to myself, how close had he come to telling Meg that night.

"Then how come you stopped loving me," Meg says through a swallowed sob.

"Are you insane?" Ben asks, his amazement clear in his voice. "What have I possibly done that makes you imagine I don't love you? That's just nuts, Meg. Sorry, honey but that's total bullshit."

"You used to devour me," she whispers. "When you made love to me It was overwhelming. I felt like I was riding a tidal wave. Now, it's an afterthought, a 'wait I need to fuck Meg tonight, we're married' kind of event. Last night was the first night you made love to me with any passion for months. And," her sob wasn't so soft this time, "that was only because you wished it was Muriel you were fucking."

"That is so not true," Ben snaps.

He's raised his voice but I let it go. He's right to in this instance. She's totally off base if she believes that.

"I was not wishing Muriel was in the pool with me," Ben continues, insistent but not as loud. "I was more turned on than usual because you were more turned on than usual. You were just tipsy enough to just let go for awhile, let that damn insistence on controlling and rationing every fucking emotion slip a little. That's why I was so turned on, because you were turned on. You may have been imagining my making love to you was an afterthought but in my mind you've been approaching it as a duty not a joy for just as long if not longer. Besides," he pauses, "if anyone was thinking about Muriel last night it was you, not me. You were practically calling out her name. Christ."

That's probably true but I think Meg needs a minute to think on that point. "Is that all that was turning you on, Ben?" I ask. "Meg being more relaxed?"

"No, I was imagining you watching. I imagined you were watching and I wanted you to know I could make love, I could fuck a woman as well as any man."

"I was watching," I confess. "I don't make that a habit. Shoot, I couldn't if I wanted to. Most of my renters don't fuck in the pool." I chuckle, hoping they understand I'm not complaining. "Maybe I should hope more of 'em take up the habit. But, no that wouldn't work. I wouldn't have watched another couple. I'd have gone inside; unless they was as sweet and as sexy as you two are."

"I knew you were watching," Meg admits. "You moved and I could see your shadow. There was enough moonlight reflecting off the patio door. Later I heard you."

"I heard you, too," Ben adds. "But that was at the end."

"Okay, let me see if I can summarize. Ben, you think Meg is too controlling..."

"No!" he interjects quickly. "That's not it. She's not controlling; she's too controlled herself."

I nod, though they can't see it. "Thank you. You're right, that's a different thing altogether. So, you think Meg needs to relax. Meg, you're afraid that Ben doesn't love you anymore, or at least doesn't feel the passion he once had for you anymore. Ben is afraid you want me and..."

"Sorry, Muriel," Ben interrupts again. "I'm not 'afraid' of that. In a way I hope she does want you. I want her to find the exuberance she once had. If that takes someone else, I can live with that."

"See what I mean?" Meg groans. "That makes no sense. What man, who really loves his wife, would be okay with her sleeping around if that made her happy? That's nuts."

"I'm not fucking telling you to fucking sleep around! Listen for a change, damn it. I said, if sleeping with Muriel is something you would enjoy, just fucking do it. I appreciate the fact you worry about it. I do. I'd be pissed if you didn't. But if you do it and it makes you happier then maybe we'll be happier. If you do it and it makes you less happy with what we have then we'll know that as well. It's better than this walking in around in daze bullshit we've been doing."

"Are you saying you want me to leave?", Meg sobs. "I knew it. I fucking knew it."

Behind my head I hear Ben roll toward his wife.

"No! I don't want you to leave. I don't want to leave. I fucking love you. Why can't you get that through your thick skull? But I don't want you miserable. If you can't be happy with me, if we can't be happy together, don't you think we should know that, now, rather than when we're sixty?"

"I'm afraid. I like, I need, things to make sense," Meg sobs. "I hate, fucking HATE, uncertainty."

I roll over and pull my legs up under me. Meg is on her back, hands over her face. Ben is on his belly, snuggled up to her side, one arm draped over her belly, the other hand on the side of her head.

I lean over and kiss the back of his hand first, then the back of Meg's hand.

"Sweet one, there's not much certain in this world. I know that's as about as clichéd as it comes but even cliché's are true, that's why they're so tiresome, they're obvious. What I see is a man doing the best he can to make his wife happy. And, I agree with you, not to be a martyr but to make you happy which will make him happy. I don't mean he'll be happy just because you are but because a happy you is a you that will want to fuck more, at least that's what I'm hearing. True, if you discover you like muff diving better than cock, ya'll got a problem."

Ben looks at me, sort of googledy-eyed. Meg snorts from underneath her hands.

"Muff diving? Jesus, Muriel, you are unbelievable."

"Muff diving. Eating at the Y. Eating a fur burger. Clam diving. Personally, I think 'cunnilingus' sounds more disgusting than any of them other names."

"What if I like both?" Meg whispers.

"What if you do? I do," I answer.

Ben says nothing but pushes his face under his wife's hands and kisses her.

"Is that what you want? To go down on Muriel?"

She nods.

"Do you want me to leave?"

She shakes her head.

***

I kiss her, loving the taste of her tongue in my mouth, before pulling my knees up under me. I move back a little and sit, legs crossed, hardon poking me in the gut, waiting to see what my wife does. I don't let myself wonder if it is too late to tell her. When will I have a better chance than now? I try to convince myself that telling her is too much to deal with. It's bullshit and I know it. She just told me she's bi, how would me confessing the same be 'too much'? Because chick on chick is hot; dude on dude is gross, disgusting, perverted. I'm a pussy. I am a coward, that's why her words bit so deeply.

"I want you to sit on my face," my wife whispers as Muriel moves to her side. Muriel smiles, leans over and kisses her.

"Hold on girl, let's start with the basics first, uh? You know, that whole 'walk before you run' business?"

Muriel stretches out next to Meg. She uses one hand to urge Meg onto her side. When Meg rolls toward her, Muriel cups her cheek and leans in for another kiss. They kiss each other softly, almost tentatively. I see my wife's face relax into Muriel's hand. I wrack my brain; does her face still wear that expression when I cup her cheek and kiss her? It hurts my heart a little that I cannot answer "yes" without thinking about it. Meg pulls away slightly. Her tongue reaches out and touches Muriel's lower lip. Muriel's lips part and she embraces Meg's offering.

My cock twitches. I can almost feel the fluid leaking from the tip. I keep my hands on my legs. I refuse to touch myself. I will watch. I will only watch.

Muriel pulls at Meg's upper lip with her teeth. Meg moans and the sound sends another quiver through my cock. Muriel moves her hand from Meg's face, rests it atop her waist as she dips her head. She kisses Meg between her breasts. Meg's back arches. Muriel walks a row of kiss over Meg's breast until her lips brush against the pebbly skin of Meg's areola. She pauses there, stoking my wife's waist, kissing around her areola, teasing the nipple with little puffs of air that sends shivers through my lovely wife's body. When she finally takes the nipple between her lips, Meg clutches at her head.