Although Lisa was married, we'd been seeing each other for some
time. "Seeing each other" might not be the most accurate
description, actually. It was an odd relationship, and it had
started oddly.
Lisa and her husband owned a restaurant/nightclub in my
neighbourhood; I'd first wandered in there shortly after they'd
opened the place, and I soon became a "regular." Regular enough
that, on occasion when the Maitre d' hadn't arrived, Lisa would
ask me help out, seating guests, etc. Or Stan, her husband, might
ask me if I'd run out to a supermarket when the kitchen suddenly
found they'd run out of some vital item. I sometimes helped them
close up, or on a slow night, might help out in the office, running
spreadsheets, or laying out a menu or promotional mailing (I was
far more computer-literate than they, and a far better editor,
although Lisa was trained as a graphic artist.) In fact, it was
that sort of collaboration that probably led to our first
flirtation.
Not that I hadn't been attracted to her from the first time I'd
walked into the place -- there was something subtly but powerfully
sexual about her. She wasn't gorgeous, though few would fail to
call her attractive, and she had very long, very red hair. But it
wasn't that; there was something else, an aura. Maybe it was the
flashing, slightly amused look that was always present just behind
her eyes. At any rate, I was aware of the chemistry from the
outset. I was also, however, an extremely discreet and fairly
conservative man, and I ignored my reactions to her.
I also ignored her increasingly less oblique hints that any
advances I cared to make would not be unwelcome. Still, I had by
now become a friend of both of theirs. I played dense when the
flirtation got too "real." That had changed one night, though
(but that's another story, for another time), and Lisa and I had
been having a steady, if irregular, sexual relationship for a
couple of years. I was not her first (nor her only) partner
outside her marriage. In fact, Lisa was more than moderately
active. And her sexual experience was far broader than mine.
Some of the things she told me, always in a teasing sort of way
(she's great at teasing), were hard to believe; they were almost
always a turn-on, though. Among other things, nothing turned her
on like the notion of a strange prick ("prick' was her word -- I've
always thought it a silly word, but since it's what she used, I'll
use it here). She loved strangers, especially teenage boys (she
was in her mid-thirties at the time), she said. And often more
than one at a time. She also liked women occasionally, but she
never felt as powerful, she said, as when she was on her knees with
two or three or four eager pricks vying for her mouth.
"Wouldn't I like to see that?" she often asked as we were making
love. I wasn't so sure. My ambivalence was composed of about
equal parts jealousy and insecurity and prurience. Our
relationship had become, over time, a deeply emotional one.
Her wisdom lay in not pressing the point; she kept tantalizing me
with stories of some of her bolder past sexual escapades and, at
the same time, reassuring me that it was neither necessary to
participate in anything similar nor to hear about them. Still, her
evident excitement as she related such stories to me was a
significant aphrodisiac for her, and that, in turn, had a strongly
stimulating effect on me.
I was, at that time in my life, "hanging out" at a neighbourhood
bar; it was, in many ways, a lot like "Cheers." Everyone knew your
name, and the "regulars" (of whom I was one) were a bit like
family. Nearly every male customer had slept with at least one of
the barmaids at one time or another, and each of the barmaids had
slept with a number of the guys. It was a casual, friendly sort of
place, without jealousies and -- among the regulars, at least -- no
tensions; we all knew each others' faults too well to get upset
with each other. We had a softball team, played endless games of
Pac-man and pinball, celebrated each others' birthdays, lent the
needier among us money from time to time, smoked incredible amounts
of grass, and -- of course -- drank ourselves into oblivion
occasionally. We were a mixed bunch: a few minor executives, a
couple of construction workers, a few nondescript 'white-collar
workers,' a few cops, a bookmaker or two, a medical editor, a
couple of cab drivers, and a couple of people who 'lived by their
wits.'
The regulars might as easily found behind the bar as at it. If
someone hadn't shown up for work or if whoever was tending bar had
to make a phone call, a customer often stepped into the breach.
Marty trusted several of us, and no one ever gave him reason not
to.
When Marty was there, the backroom office was nearly as busy a place
as the bar, with softball schedules and strategies being planned,
or picnics, or chats. The door was never unlocked, though. Too
often, Marty and someone would be in there smoking a joint, and we
*were* careful about that.
If you've known any bar or nightclub owners, you know that it's
common practice for them to visit other similar establishments. It
seems just to be part of the culture. I used to take Lisa to
Mario's (no one had any idea who Mario was -- the place had been
named that when Marty bought it, from a guy named Dave -- the origin
of the name was lost in time) fairly frequently. Often, we'd stop
in there after she'd closed her place up for the night. Mario's
was usually open to regulars well "after hours." Only the small
reading lamps behind the bar, over the bottles and the till, would
be on, so as not to advertise its status, but if you knocked and if
they knew you, they'd open the door. Once inside you'd find five
or ten regulars, most of them growing fuzzy with the hour as well
as with the various substances they'd been ingesting all night.
"Mellow" was the right word.
Marty was a good-looking guy, with the sort of looks that Lisa was
particularly partial to (a very different "type" from me), and I'd
often noticed her looking at him with a clearly erotic curiosity;
Marty looked at every attractive woman with a frank "I think it'd be
fun to fuck you" look. On occasion, just to make sure I'd caught
it, Lisa would point out to me his looks at her. "Do you think
Marty wants to fuck me?" she'd ask, "He never would because he's
your friend, but I think he wants to."
One night, Lisa and I had been out to dinner and we stopped by
Mario's afterward. Marty was there -- he was always there on a
Saturday night -- and Angie was behind the bar. At dinner, I'd
mentioned to Lisa that it had been Marty's birthday the day before
and that I wanted to drop in to buy him a birthday drink. She got
that look in her eyes and asked coyly whether I wouldn't care to
give him a present he wouldn't forget.
I knew what she meant, of course. I said, "Maybe. We'll see." I
only half meant it. I could tease as well as be teased, after all.
Meanwhile, she flirted with the waiter. As usual, she was dressed
slightly provocatively. Her skirt was short but not radically so,
and she wore a loose sweater with a fairly open weave; since Lisa
had never, in all the years I'd known her, been known to wear a
bra, there were occasional tantalizing glimpses of flesh through
the sweater. She was never too obvious, though, and an observer
could never be sure whether whether he'd just seen a flash of her
nipple or whether he'd just imagined it. The sweater was cut low
enough that when she leaned forward as he served the wine, he
almost certainly got a brief but distinct look at her tits. She
loved that sort of flirtation. When I mentioned that we were
getting especially attentive service as a result, she asked whether
I thought he was hard yet.
That was her way. And there was always a smirk that said she would
just as soon take the situation a step further. In this case, she
speculated on whether she ought to take him the waiter into the
ladies' room. I wasn't overly concerned that she would, though.
I could tell when she was just toying with an idea, or with me.
Not that she wasn't capable of it -- she was quite capable -- but
her goal on this occasion was to stoke her own excitement so as to
arouse me. And she was succeeding. There's no aphrodisiac like
your partner's excitement. It was a 'feedback loop' we'd perfected
over the years.
As a result, by the time we arrived at the bar, we were both at a
high pitch. It wasn't very late, but it was a fairly slow night at
the bar. We had a drink or two and flirted quietly with each
other. Finally, Lisa asked if I'd thought about Marty's gift.
Half bluffing (it was tough to tell, even long afterward, whether
I'd been bluffing or not; the wine had fuzzed my inhibitions by
then), I said I thought it might be a good idea. She suggested
then that we visit Marty in the office. "You can decide later," she
said, "and let me know what you want me to do. There's no
pressure. I'd be willing to leave it a fantasy."
Lisa was good at putting me at ease. She had a kind of wisdom, as
well as an electric sexuality, that allowed her to always make me
feel unpressured. At the same time, of course, she aroused my
imagination in ways that made me able to consider what might
otherwise have been unthinkable.
When we knocked on the door to the office, Marty let us in and
locked the door behind us; he was just rolling himself a joint, as
it happened. We passed it around and chatted, and I rolled
another. As we smoked, I could catch him stealing glances at Lisa,
and I could see why. Her nipples were erect, and she had that
moist-eyed glaze of excitement that was due to more than just the
grass.
By then, the liquor, the earlier teasing conversation with Lisa,
the smoke, and her evident arousal had numbed my own inhibitions
and misgivings thoroughly. I mentioned Marty's birthday and told
him that I'd been trying to think of a gift; he said it wasn't
necessary, but I wouldn't accept that. Lisa shot me a glance that
told me she was more than eager, so I told Marty that we'd finally
decided upon a truly memorable present. At that point, I looked
pointedly at Lisa and touched her shoulder.
Playing the wide-eyed innocent, she looked back at me and asked,
"Do you want me on my knees now?"
"I think that would be appropriate," I responded.
Marty was taken utterly by surprise (as I mentioned, I was known as
a rather conservative sort), but he was quick to understand the
situation. Lisa knelt before him and began to open the zipper on
his jeans. To her pleasant surprise, Marty wasn't wearing
underwear, and his nearly erect prick was suddenly at her eye
level. As she wrapped her lips around it, she gazed into *my*
eyes, to show me how pleased (and excited) she was. I started to
open the door to leave them, but she reached out a hand and pushed
it back closed. "Stay," she said, "there's nothing you can't see."
Marty could only say, "oh."
Slowly, she ran her tongue up the shaft of his now very hard tool.
"Tell him what a good cocksucker I am." With that, she engulfed
him again, reaching out one hand to grab my hand. She placed it on
the back of her head and then reached for Marty's to place it on
her head, too. He groaned.
I shoved her head down on him, and he soon had taken over, holding
her head in both hands, pushing his prick down her throat. In
seconds, he was bucking and humping her face as he filled her mouth
with semen. She intentionally held on to his prick with her lips
while she let some of the cum drip down her chin. All the while,
he'd said nothing but "oh," "wow," and "Lisa."
She swallowed, looked coyly up at him, and said, "Happy Birthday,
Marty." Then she looked at me and said, "I'm glad you didn't go,
but you didn't tell him what a good cocksucker I am, so I'll have
to show him how wet I get when I have a hard prick in my mouth."
She took his hand then, and pulled it under her skirt. I knew then
that she'd probably removed her panties earlier, when she'd gone to
the ladies' room in the restaurant. "Sometimes it makes me so
excited that I come," she said, "but poor Marty came too fast . .
. this time." She smiled.
Suddenly, she reached for my zipper. "Why don't you help Dean take
my sweater off," she said to Marty, as she dropped again to her
knees, this time in front of me. "I'd hate to get cum stains on
it." She smiled coyly again. I didn't come as quickly as Marty
had. When I did, though, she took my prick out of her mouth before
I'd finished, and directed the last hot spurts to her breasts.
That triggered her own orgasm (it was a quirk of hers that I, of
course, knew about, that when she was really highly aroused, she
could sometimes climax merely at the touch of hot semen on her
breasts) and she screamed. Fortunately, the jukebox outside the
door was loud enough that no one could hear.
She stood up then, and asked Marty to roll another joint; she made
no attempt to put her blouse back on. When he handed her a lit
joint, Lisa looked directly at Marty and explained "this was a
birthday present I wanted to give you, but don't misunderstand. It
only happened because Dean was here. For tonight, I'm your
birthday present; tomorrow, I'll act as though it never happened,
and it never will, without him. I just want to make that clear."
With that, though, she grinned and said, to us both this time, "but
the night is young." And it was.
That was our first such experience. It never could have happened
had Lisa not understood her own sexuality so well, nor her ability
to make it non-threatening for me. She was wise to know that
jealousy and raw sexuality, when openly confronted, don't have to
go together.
The night was, indeed, young. Before it ended, she and I had taken
our relationship to a new plane. More on that later. Maybe.
--
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