There can only ever be one woman in my heart, and this is dedicated to her. MK
Buzzing neon night in the city that never sleeps. Car lights streaking along the byways, and a symphony of noises and smells rising from the 24 hour hustle of the sidewalk. Sirens ring through the night air as gradually, the sequence of lights being turned on and off in the skyscrapers eclipses the twinkling of the stars. One of these is to be the star that this story follows – the slow dimming of a light, high in a Brooklyn apartment. As it fades to a rosy glow, a feminine hand with long and sculpted fingers appears in the window. It hovers for a while, before vanishing, inch by inch, out of sight. The curtains may be drawn and the city locked out for the night, but one thing is certain – there will be little sleep between these four walls until sunrise.
We’re in our apartment, sharing a drink with two near strangers. I watch you gaze absently into your glass as the atmosphere heats up. Our relationship has been shining on for five sensual years, our sex life only enhanced by the degree of emotional intimacy attained. How we met and the years of struggle we faced before living our dream is of no consequence for now. We are together, and things have never been so good. Open-minded, daring and kinky to the extreme, we have no limits as far as sex is concerned – only ideas; and our latest brainwave is sitting right in front of us right now, in the form of two beautiful women, smouldering in the eroticism of the moment.
We came across them in a small club named Henrietta’s – one of Manhattan’s best-kept secrets. Like most of the women that night, they were horny and shamelessly open in their quest for something different. But what made them stand out for us was the intense sexuality they exuded, and their oblivion to all eyes around them as they got dirty on the crowded dance floor. Together, they had a magnetism that reminded us of our own relationship, and as the music ebbed away our inhibitions, so it drew us into the act of inviting them back to our home.
Although names were exchanged, they have drifted out of my mind on a cloud of fired up hormones. We have indulged in small moments of exhibitionism in the past – kisses, fumbles, and even some subtle nipple-sucking on a transatlantic flight – but never have we performed full-blown sex in front of another living being. It is made all the more exciting by the fact that we know little about these women.
As the conversation flows and the champagne sooths any nerves, they explain to us how they met on a flight attendant training course, enjoyed the most breathtaking sex, and then gradually lost contact as they were scattered across the world, their flight paths never meeting again until now. In their early thirties, they give the impression of being veterans at this game. One blonde, one brunette, both tall and glamorous to a mind-blowing extent, it was they who called our bluff when we stepped out of the taxi, by asking outright if they could watch us fuck.
For the first few minutes sitting opposite each other on two leather couches, it is almost as though this suggestion was never made. Instead, we make an effort to talk about pretty much everything while the champagne works its magic on our nerves. To out surprise, it turns out that these women have not seen each other in around seven years. After a month of breathtaking sex on a flight attendant course in Paris, they were separated by work and scattered to different corners of the world, their flight paths never crossing until now.
When we have exhausted all chitchat about life, travel, shopping and movies, the brunette, who is unmistakably the more dominant of the two shifts the topic back towards sex.
“So tell me, ladies,” she purrs, a glint in her eye as her foreign accent slips through our defences unchecked, “After five years together, you should have quite a collection of sex toys. What kind of things do you like to use on each other?”
There is a tense silence as your breathing becomes noticeably heavier, and I cave in to a fit of the giggles.
“We don’t actually use any,” you reply, never one to be outdone, “We can do everything we need to do with our fingers and tongues…”
