It was one of those rare days in Southern California. Rather than bright sunlight and cool ocean breezes, cold winds raised white, gauzy draperies of mist. Rain gently pattered down on the waxy leaves outside the window.
Lying next to me was my wife Marlene, whom I’d married just twelve months earlier. Ever amazed by her glossy black hair, and its tendency to relax into a flowing pattern that mimicked the smooth, soft contours of her slender body, I sat staring at her great, dark curls. From time to time I glanced into her jet-black eyes. Entranced by the soft shadows the dim light was pushing across the ceiling, Marlene languidly followed them with her glance as they shifted shape.
She didn’t notice that I had awakened, which gave me time to gaze downward, enjoying the complete picture. The blue satin sheet clung to her naked body as though it were a second skin. Those magnificent breasts, which I had spent countless hours appreciating in my mind as well as with my lips and hands, could never be copied by a sculptor. Her thin, high waist seemed to point like an arrow toward the flare of her hips and the treasure that lay between them. From that juncture sprang two of the most beautiful legs ever seen. It was those legs that made me give up trying to paint the human figure, for no brush could ever capture her smooth, flawless skin. Thighs like a bowl of cream, calves with curves that should shame the designers of exotic cars, and sexy, thin ankles, completed the picture.
Then she turned that goddess’s face, and with the softest smile on her lush lips, said, “Do you want eggs for breakfast?”
“Any other options?” I asked. Her hands, pressing lightly on my shoulders, suggested an alternative, and she met little resistance from me. So began a memorable day of unhurried pleasures.
I lay for several minutes just nuzzling her pubic hair with my lips and chin. My hands roamed over the silk of Marlene’s thighs. The scent that rose from between them grew ever stronger, beckoning me to explore her mysterious depths. Finally placing my hands behind her knees and raising them, I watched her legs fall open and reveal her lovely secret. Her outer lips were already pink and swollen with impetuous desire.
Perhaps a stronger man would have sat back and observed this miracle of beauty a little longer, but I dove forward with a little cry and buried my tongue in her nectar. Her rich, thick honey coated my tongue and drove me into a frenzy. I began lapping at both her inner and outer lips, wanting to touch her everywhere with my mouth.
The pretty rosebud of her clitoris peeked shyly at me from under its hood. I rained soft kisses all over and around it. Then I closed my lips over the swollen morsel and slowly rocked my head left and right. The pace at which Marlene thrust her hips up, pressing herself against my chin, told me how fast she wanted me to move. The tempo increased steadily. So did the urgency of her surging hips. Soon I let her clit slide free, but continued shaking my head as fast as I could, my lips running smoothly over her swollen button.
When her orgasm arrived, her hips remained in the air, still vibrating but no longer banging against the bed. My mouth was plastered against her slippery opening, and Marlene twined her fingers through my hair, pressing my face even more firmly against her. She gasped and moaned for a good two minutes, then collapsed.
By noon we were both thoroughly relaxed and glowing, but the idea of rising from our bed held no charm at all. Nonetheless, there were things to do. Marlene insisted that we pull ourselves together and spend the afternoon looking at houses, something we talk about endlessly but never seem to get to. My paintings were selling well, after years of hard work, but the commitment to years of debt still scared me. Marlene melted me with a look and said, “I’ve made an appointment with a realtor for one hour from now. Please, lover, be nice.” How could I resist?
The house was perfect, which of course translated as out of our price range, but Marlene said it would cost nothing to look. She mentioned that the owner was the realtor, and had just lost her husband.
Lilly made an immediate impression. She was perhaps fifteen years our senior, but her face and figure gave no clue to the fact. As she walked us through the spacious rooms, her heels clicked almost musically on the marble floors. Furnished with style and taste, the house also displayed some of the finest art we had seen in some time. Nearly all the works were by the same artist. Many were nudes, and many of the nudes were of Lilly, well-painted pictures of her flowing red hair and graceful body. She explained that her late husband was the painter, and the next stop on our tour would be his studio.
I was, of course, instantly engrossed in a close study of the studio. Lilly told us that she had an appointment, and we offered to leave, but she suggested that we make ourselves comfortable. Saying she would return in about an hour, she left us in her husband’s beautifully appointed workroom. It had huge northern windows, a twenty-foot ceiling, and room for monumental canvases. We were both aghast at its sheer size.
Marlene walked over to the daybed in the center of the room. A sly smile told me what was on her mind.
“Maybe we can’t own it, but we could make love here just this once,” she said. As she slipped out of her dress, she spun like a ballerina, letting the sun play on her porcelain skin. Marlene has never been one to appreciate underwear, so as soon as her dress slid to the floor, she reclined naked on the bed. Her head on the pillow, one leg raised at the knee, she instructed, “Off with those clothes, lover.”
Leaving a trail of my clothes, I advanced toward the bed, but stopped short when, from behind me, I heard a gasp.
Turning, I saw Lilly in the studio door with a bottle of champagne in one hand and three glasses in the other. Staring and short of breath, she walked quickly to the table by the bed and set everything down. Marlene had not moved. She sat on the bed wide-eyed with embarrassment.
Lilly turned and smiled at me, then turned to Marlene. She bent over the bed and firmly planted a quick kiss on Marlene’s lips. Then she stood up, slipped off her dress and knelt, spread-legged, over Marlene. She again kissed Marlene, then turned her head to me and said, “I am sure you can afford this house.”
Marlene looked at Lilly, but spoke to me: “Lick her real good, lover, because I want this real bad.”
Always one to face a challenge head-on, I moved to the foot of the bed and caressed the soft, white cheeks of Lilly’s bottom. It was perhaps a little wider than when her husband had painted her, but no less firm. Bending forward, I placed a kiss on either cheek. At the same time, Lilly was laying kiss after kiss on Marlene’s lips, eyes and cheeks. The breasts of the two women were pressed together, flattened by the pressure of their rapidly increasing passion. When Lilly lifted herself for a moment to look at Marlene’s face, I could see that both women’s nipples were swollen, wrinkled and as dark as cherries.
Using both hands, I parted Lilly’s thighs to make way for my exploring tongue. Her scent was different from Marlene’s, but no less pungent or compelling. The groans that greeted my first licks let me know that it had been some time since she had been caressed by anyone but herself.
At the first touch of my mouth, she trembled and collapsed forward. The two women continued to explore each other with their lips, their bodies molded one against the other. I separated Marlene’s legs as well, and now had access to two lovely treasures at once. Immediately taking advantage of the fact, I ran my tongue from the bottom of Marlene’s opening to the top of Lilly’s, then plunged back down again. Soon both women were writhing in ecstasy, their copious fluids mixing in a delightful carnal cocktail, which I lapped up as fast as I could.
Marlene was the first to reach her release. She threw her arms around her new-found friend and held her tightly. Lilly held both of Marlene’s nipples between the tips of her long fingers, as Marlene thrashed beneath the attentions of my tongue.
When Marlene’s climax had begun to subside, I turned my attention to Lilly. Burying my tongue deep inside her vagina, I stroked in and out while circling her clitoris with my thumb. As she came closer and closer to orgasm, I moved more and more slowly, until at last her climax rolled out of her in a long, strong, steady flow, accompanied by a moan that came from the depths of her soul.
The two women lay side by side on their backs in luxurious relaxation, holding hands and feeling the sun on their skin. Lilly stirred lazily and, looking at me, said, “Don’t you want your release, too?”
“Oh yes,” I replied. “But sometimes I get it in a different way.” And I returned to my task of setting up an easel and mixing paints, then added to my explanation: “I’ll be fine, as long as the light holds out.” —S.C., San Diego, California