Lassy Lady: the Dandelion Field

Hello! I'm Chloe.

This is Part II of my "adventures," but don't worry if you haven't read Part I. I'll give a quick rundown in case you missed it, but first--because I know how important it is to be able to visualize the action--I'll quote my husband's description of me: "Her brown hair . . . cut short and chic. Her pale, heart-shaped face. Blue-gray eyes. The dusting of freckles on her nose. . . . her petite, willowy, milk-white body." Pretty flattering, I must say! I'd add that I'm short, and kind of athletic (lots of jogging, lots of crunches). My best feature?--I'd have to say my belly button. Honestly, my breasts are quite small, but I haven't had any complaints so far. Beyond appearance, I'm actually kind of a nerd. I read all the time. I'm a total computer geek. I love my job of teaching Advanced Placement English in a very good high school.

Okay, so, "Klassy Lady": On a dare from some of my girlfriends (fellow teachers I regularly get drunk with after the last bell), I did some nude modeling for the local college art department. That got my husband (known to all you readers by his literotica handle of catomanytales, but I'll call him Paul) thinking about other guys looking at me, then other guys hooking up with me . . . see where this is going? We had a lot of long talks. Ultimately, Paul didn't want a completely open marriage, but he did want us to explore me being sexual with other men. I love Paul and would never "cheat" on him, but this was something that he wanted very much. Well, how could I refuse? The more we talked about it, the more excited I became to try it out.

You would think we'd take baby steps into this lifestyle, right? Ha! Paul thought otherwise. When I suggested that he script a fantasy for me to go act out, he threw me into the deep end of the pool. I got my first taste of this new freedom by working for a weekend in a sleeeeeeaaaazy whorehouse. Paul got to watch behind a one-way mirror. In "Klassy Lady" (which is also the name of the brothel, by the way), he tells the story of my first night on the job.

Some kind readers have inquired about Saturday and Sunday. Well, they were just like Friday, only more so: hot and heavy, wet and sticky, often heavenly, sometimes startling, sometimes challenging, a few times even painful--but always, always, always sexy as hell. As fondly as Paul and I look back on those memories, we realized that detailing the whole weekend would probably get repetitive for readers.

The million-dollar question seems to be, How many guys did I service, in the end? Let me tell you something about the female mind--we don't like exact numbers. Whether it's our weight or age or the number of drinks we've had, and especially the number of our sexual partners, we just aren't very comfortable giving a straight answer. That might seem inconsistent when I'm willing to go into so many other details, but there it is. Let's just say that all weekend long, I was very, very busy. If I'd been notching my bedpost, I'm afraid I would have whittled it down to a toothpick. I will say that the other girls didn't get nearly as much action as I did. What happened was, R. J., the guy who ran the place, put the word out about me, and everyone flocked to get a taste of the "fresh meat"!

Ahhh, R. J. Some of you have asked how he's doing. I don't know, because I've had no further contact with him, but I can tell you that I think about him almost every second. You see, he left me with a souvenir: a golden barbell through my little clit hood. One ball is engraved with an R, the other with a J. The thing is huge. I'm constantly aware of it. If I'm naked, and my legs are even slightly parted, you will see it. The fact that I've kept myself absolutely bald down there makes it all the more conspicuous. It bothers Paul. Another man's initials on my body--and there of all places!--is a bit more than he bargained for. I could take it out, and I would, if Paul asked. But he knows how big a step I took for him, so he respects my choice to wear it. From his own point of view, he looks at it as a reminder that as long as we keep going down this path, which we choose to do together, there are risks and consequences we can't foresee.

On to the new story! So school let out for summer, and I was frazzled from the rush I'd just been through to get all the final grades turned in on time. One of my girlfriends told me about a cottage she and her husband kept, way out in the country. Her description of it sounded like a dream come true.

"We won't get out there till Friday afternoon," she told me. (This was on a Monday.) "You and Paul are welcome to it until then."

"Oh," I said, "he has to work, you know."

"Well, then you're welcome to it, if you want."

"Hmmmm," I said. "Nah, I think I'll pass. Thanks anyway!"

The next morning, after Paul had left for work, I lay in bed, naked, fingering the barbell, languidly playing with myself. My friend had mentioned the fields of wildflowers all around, and a nearby stream that widened to a pool where she liked to skinny-dip. I thought I must be crazy, turning down her offer. I called her and said, "Hey, if it's all right, I changed my mind about the cottage." I still had one finger on my clit. I teetered on the edge of coming while my friend told me I could stop by her house for directions and the key. As soon as she said it, I stopped. I like to be horny when I face new situations. I like the edge it puts on everything. Colors are much brighter, scents are much more fragrant, and the world is more alive when I'm hungry for erotic satisfaction. In keeping with that mood, and feeling naughty, I skipped the bra and panties, and slipped into my airiest, sexiest, printed-silk mini-dress, with nothing underneath.

The truth is, I hadn't been with any man but Paul since my weekend at the Klassy Lady, way back in the fall. I'd gotten my fill (so to speak!), and it just hadn't been a priority. Lately, though, Paul was starting to drop hints, reminding me about our arrangement. He told me I should feel free to act, any time I wanted, and even if he wasn't there to watch, that shouldn't stop me. I could tell he was getting restless for something else to happen. Of course, I didn't expect to meet anyone at a solitary cottage in the middle of nowhere, but it was in the back of my mind that I should be on the lookout for opportunities.

I called Paul on the way to my friend's. He did some pouting over the idea of being left alone for several days, but agreed that the relaxation would do me good. I have one of those camera phones, and sent him a picture of me blowing him a kiss.

Next stop--grocery store! My friend said there was a lot of stuff out at the cottage, in cans and such, but I wanted fresh meats and other things, as well. Not to mention alcohol!

The cottage turned out to be as rustically picturesque as I imagined, and as secluded. I settled in, put away the groceries, unpacked my clothes, arranged my stuff in the bathroom--all the things a girl does to make herself at home.

I hadn't eaten anything since the nutri-bar I gobbled on the run, for breakfast. A picnic in a field of wildflowers seemed like just the thing. I uncorked a bottle of wine, and started to swig from it as I made my preparations. I found the basket my friend encouraged me to use, and filled it with good things. My privacy seemed assured, this far out in the country, so I slipped out of the dress, and--voila!--I was nude down to the sandals on my feet. I threw a blanket over my shoulder, and started out with the basket in one hand and the bottle in the other.

The sun was shining, a breeze was blowing, and I was buzzing. I spread out my blanket. I munched from the basket. I swigged more from the bottle. I kicked off the sandals. The wildflowers turned out to be a carpet of brilliant yellow dandelions, and I danced naked among them. A little skinny-dipping was in order, I thought. Somehow, in my half-drunken state, I recalled my friend's directions to the stream and the pool. I had to go a ways into some woods, and soon wished I hadn't left the sandals on the blanket. I went ahead anyway, picking my steps as carefully as I could in my inebriated condition. I came upon the pool rather suddenly, as my friend warned me that I would.

What my friend didn't warn me about were the two men I suddenly found myself face-to-face with. They both wore bathing suits. I only wore my wedding band and the barbell. The whole situation sobered me up instantly, and made me do a full-body blush. Yes, even after Klassy Lady, I still have a shred or two of modesty. Every inch of me turned scarlet, as the guys could attest, since they got a good, long look at every blushing inch of me while we stared at each other in shocked silence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw their canoe drawn up on the bank. My brain started to work again. I was even more embarrassed to realize that I stood fully exposed before a father and his son. It was so obvious. With their trim physiques and curly brown hair, they looked almost exactly like the father and oldest son from the Brady Bunch. My eyesight's pretty good, and I noticed that the father didn't wear a wedding ring. I also noticed that both guys were rock-hard, straight up, perfectly outlined, and straining to burst out of their bathing suits. The possibilities began to dawn on me.

All of us, standing there, wanted the same thing, but under the unusual circumstances, none of us were sure how to get things going. I decided to take the initiative. I was so nervous that my voice trembled, but I made the invitation: "I have a blanket over this way, if the two of you would like to share it with me."

They laughed, and smiled, and nodded. Good. That broke the ice. "I'm Chloe," I said. Instead of shaking their hands, I hugged them. I let my breasts press the bare, lean-muscled flesh of their torsos and chests, and I went up on tiptoe to plant flirty kisses on their cheeks. They told me their names. I'll call the father "Mike" and the son "Greg" (like the Brady Bunch--get it?).

Walking between them, holding their hands, I led them to the blanket. My heart beat wildly, and butterflies were churning in my tummy. Yes, I've literally been a whore, but it still blew my mind, what I was about to do. My stint at Klassy Lady was Paul's idea. In a sense, this was my first "free" use of my freedom. It also felt different because Paul wouldn't be watching. Also, I was genuinely attracted to these guys, especially the dad. I looked over at him and he smiled at me, and that was it--I knew I was starting to crush on him. That's in total contrast to the men I serviced at Klassy Lady. Most of those guys weren't what I'd call repulsive (though a few certainly were), but let's just say that, given the choice, there weren't many of them I would have fucked under any other circumstances.

I lay down with my hands behind my head and my legs comfortably open. My new friends stared at the barbell, of course, which made me blush again. How long would it take them to find R. J.'s initials? How would I explain that? I decided what I would tell them when we reached that point: he was a former lover, whom I remembered very fondly, which was kind of true. Back to the present, I said, "Why don't you boys get comfortable?"

A few thumping heartbeats later, they lay down, one on either side of me, as naked as I was. Their cocks were big and stiff and quivering, ready and eager for me. Just to establish some physical contact, I ran my fingers over Mike's (the father's) washboard stomach, and put a hand on Greg's chest.

I said, "Ummm, I hope this isn't awkward for you, sharing a woman like this."

Mike brushed a finger across my cheek, and said, "Oh, I'm sure we'll deal with it."

Greg was still staring at the barbell. I took his hand, and guided his middle finger right to it. He gave the barbell a gentle flick, then started to rub. He found my clit. He stimulated it with the barbell, and directly with his finger. It felt good, and I let him know by sighing and giving a little squirm of pleasure.

Mike ran his fingers through my hair. He got a firm grip at the back of my head, and pulled me to him. It made me turn from Greg, but I winked at him and patted his hand before I rolled away. I ended up lying halfway on Mike's chest, with my leg flopped over his. The full length of our bodies came suddenly in contact. I tried to stabilize myself with a hand on his stomach. We kissed. God, we kissed! He slipped me just the right amount of tongue. I enthusiastically reciprocated. His thigh was pressed against my labia, and I started to rub myself on him. I was so wet, I was streaking juices. We both looked down at the same time, and laughed together at the shiny, sticky smear I was tracing on his thigh.

He rolled me onto my back. Dizzy with desire, I thought, "This is it!" I raised my legs and spread them.

He ducked his head down to my pussy. Before I could react, I felt the barbell move. I felt his tongue where the gold met my pink skin. It caught me off guard, since I expected him to enter me. A different kind of sexual jolt zinged through me, and made me moan out loud. His lips closed over my nether lips. He sucked me like a nectarine. My knees went weak. I could barely hold my legs up. Then he started to work his tongue.

While Mike was thus occupied, it seemed like a good time to bring Greg back in on the fun. On my back, I looked upside-down at him. I reached out with both arms, and said, "Come here, sweetie."

Greg cradled my head and shoulders in his lap. We proceeded to make out with a lot of drool and slobber. Normally, I don't like that kind of sloppy kissing, but Mike's cunnilingus was making me so hot that I couldn't help directing some of the heat at Greg, and we got so intense and passionate together that I found all the spit we were swapping quite a turn-on.

You would think that after working in a whorehouse, I would have experienced everything, but even at Klassy Lady, I'd never before been kissed on both sets of lips at once. It was quite a sensation! It wasn't long before I started coming, and once I started, it seemed like I would never stop. The orgasms were very light. They didn't rock my body to the core like a true good fucking would. They were like a stone skipping across the surface, instead of plunging to my depths. Like I said, though, they just kept on and on. I tried not to interrupt my extremely pleasant makeout session with Greg, but it wasn't long before I had to break it off, because I was whimpering and yelping through the peaks and valleys of my multiple orgasms. He was sweet about it. He just sat back (still supporting my head and shoulders, though, like a perfect gentleman) and let me have the moment. I laced my fingers through his, and he let me squeeze his hands while I came and came and came. It got to the point where I felt like I might faint, and--I kid you not--I laid my arm over my forehead in the classic swooning gesture.

All good things must come to an end. I stopped coming eventually, and then we sat around with shit-eating grins, thanking each other, and talking about how great it had been. We passed around the bottle. We snacked out of the basket.

None of us wanted to get too personal, so there wasn't much to talk about besides the sex. I must say, we were very frank and detailed about what made it good. The guys remarked on everything from the way my toes quivered and curled, to the way my stomach rippled and flexed, to the way I cried and moaned, to the way I always adjusted to accommodate whatever they were doing. When I come, I've learned to let myself lose control and go with it. I have to admit that it made me self-conscious to think that they were watching me so closely while my body was so caught up in the pleasure. They reassured me, though, that they had never seen anything as sexy or beautiful as me while I was in the throes of passion. For my part, I wasn't shy about telling them exactly what they did that I particularly liked. I tried to describe how exciting it felt to have two mouths and four hands all over my body. Mike asked about R. J. My explanation seemed to satisfy him.

The dirty talk was making us horny for more. Neither of the guys had come yet, and they both were still extremely erect. I was eager for round two. When the wine ran out, I said, "What're we waiting for? Let's go again."

Mike held the empty wine bottle up suggestively. I don't know why guys get such a kick out of shoving huge foreign objects into women, but I wanted my guys to feel free to experiment with me. If fucking me with a wine bottle gave them the confidence to move on to more truly erotic things, a little discomfort for the moment wouldn't kill me. I spread my legs, making the invitation as obvious as possible. Meanwhile, I leaned back against Greg, who was still behind me. I turned my face up to his, and we picked right back up where we left off. Mike placed the mouth of the bottle to my nether lips. Just so there was no confusion about my willingness, I opened my legs wider and raised them so my heels hovered slightly off the blanket in that field of dandelions. Greg sucked my tongue. It was all so sexy, I began to feel lightheaded. Mike pushed, slowly but firmly. I took in the neck of the bottle, until the cool, smooth bulge of the glass pressed against my labia. It didn't feel great, but I didn't mind.

At first I was nervous that Mike would want to ram and jam the bottle roughly. Men have been known to get carried away with things like that. My fears were unfounded. He tried to be sensual about it. Greg opened his eyes, then stopped kissing me altogether, to watch. I glanced down, to see what they were staring at so intently. I have to admit, it did look sexy, the neck of a wine bottle slipping in and out between my labia, glistening with my juices. I could understand why the guys were fascinated. It looked a lot nicer than it felt. When I had enough, I grabbed Mike and said, "You! I want you."

He laid me flat on my back, with my legs hooked over his shoulders. Each time he thrust, our bodies slapped loudly, and my feet shook in the air. He was actually moving me across the blanket! When we reached the blanket's edge, he pushed my legs back--slowly, since he wasn't sure how limber I would be--until my toes touched the grass behind my head. My ass was sticking way up, and sunlight glinted on the barbell. My labia were wet from all my lubrication, and I could feel a cool breeze blowing over them. Mike repositioned himself for a more vertical motion.

I gasped as his cock slurped back into my pussy. In one slick motion, he sank it to the hilt. He proceeded to pound me like a hammer on an anvil. That might sound rough, but he was nailing me exactly where I wanted to be nailed. Most of the time, at Klassy Lady, I had to be very active with my partners, and do a lot of moving to help them get me off. Even with my husband, Paul, I have to work at it a bit. With Mike, it was glorious to have a lover who knew exactly what I wanted.

I mentioned earlier that I've had to learn to abandon myself completely to my orgasms, to enjoy them fully, and to be vulnerable enough with my partners to let them see (and hear) me lose control to the pleasure they give me. One of the hardest things for me to get over was the noise my pussy makes during contractions, when my orgasm is the deep kind that really shakes the earth for me. The first time I heard it, I thought the startling, wet squish sounded embarrassingly close to a fart. It's like the noise you can make by getting your hands wet and then squeezing the palms together. On top of that, I usually can't help moaning or crying out when I feel it. On the outstroke, a partner has to pull against the grip, and it makes a juicy sucking noise that's just as loud. Paul has helped me get comfortable with this aspect of my sexuality, but my time at Klassy Lady made me start to feel self-conscious again. The men always reacted. Some stopped and looked surprised. A few even laughed.