Hot Tub Trio Ch. 04

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Amateur

The earlier chapters describe how Vince met Amy and Chad, including MMf sex. This chapter can be read independently, though I hope you’ll read the earlier chapters as well. It contains hints of Vince’s bisexuality but there is no real MM sex in this chapter if that is what you are either looking for or trying to avoid. This chapter is more sedate and provides background on Vince. All the real action starts in Part Two. If sex, not background is what you’re after skip to part two. It looks like that will be near the top of page 3 in the Preview screen.

It deals with Vince’s first time so I’ve put it in that category instead of “Group Sex”. I hope that does not cause too much confusion.

The lyric’s quoted are from “Just Like Heaven” by the Cure.

Of course, everyone depicted is over 18. I hope you enjoy.

*****

Part One:

Amy’s orgasm left her totally wiped, her body too sensitive for playing, at least for now. She had managed to swallow most of Chad’s cum but what she had missed, and what had continued to drip from his cock, was now slowly sliding off her breasts, breasts I had decided were almost as hot as her ass.

I don’t mind sno-balling, in fact I sort of get off on it. I know some totally straight guys do it, or guys totally straight as far as can be determined. I like it as long as there is no spitting. That seems to be big in porn these days. Some guy or gal tilts their head back while someone else lets a long trail of cum and spit drop into their mouth. Yuck.

I know; that makes no sense. I don’t mind kissing someone who has recently had, or may even still have, cum in their mouth. I don’t mind someone cumming in my mouth, in fact in the right mood I enjoy that rather a lot. I guess it is the submissiveness that bothers me; whatever the reason no one is spitting anything into my mouth.

I understand many people would grimace and whine “disgusting” if I reported licking Chad’s jizz off his fiancé’s tits and the side of her mouth, which is exactly what I did do. Those that find that disgusting can go fuck themselves. If eating cum is so vile I assume none of the disgusted every dump a load in their wives’ or girlfriend’s mouths? Yeah, right.

So, yes, I licked Chad’s cum off Amy and I enjoyed it immensely.

The only problem is my two new friends are down for the count and here I stand, kneel actually, with a blue-steel boner and no one interested in helping me do anything about it.

Aw fuck, they will be back and rearing to go soon enough, sooner than I could manage in their shoes, or lack of shoes. I hope they will be rearing to go. An orgasm clears the mind, leaves you wondering, “how the fuck did I let myself to do that”. What seems like a really hot idea can turn to shit in your head before your body quits quivering. Being horny causes as many bad decisions as being drunk, or it has in my case. These two have just dumped a month’s worth of serotonin, prolactin and a dozen other neurotransmitters and hormones into their bodies. I am prepared for them to begin to stir, blush, hem, haw, gather their clothes and run. I hope they won’t but if they do it won’t be the first time that’s happened to me.

Usually it is guys that freak on you. First they are all over you, all “let my suck your cock” or “yeah eat my ass” sometimes even “yeah fuck my ass” then they blow they’re load and “gay, who me? Fuck no. You’re crazy man.” I’m convinced the ones that freak the most or the truly gay ones, not the bi dudes. The bi dudes usual freak because they feel guilty over cheating on a wife or girlfriend. The repressed gay guys have more than guilt to deal with. They have the tangy evidence lingering in their mouths that they are exactly what they desperately don’t want to be. As soon as some dude starts implying he’s been tricked, or starts with the “what the fuck you doing man” shit I get pissed. I feel bad for the conflicted fuck wads, I really do, but I’m not their psychiatrist. Nor do I have any intention of being the object of their displaced self-loathing.

After Mathew Shepard I did some serious research on self-defense. I had taken a couple of semesters of judo as a college PE elective. But after looking at the options and checking out a few dojos, they all seemed to be dojos even if the martial art in question was not Japanese. I settled on krav maga. It is a system so brutal it achieves beauty. It wasn’t a great fit for me. It’s more aggressive than I tend to be. I like to win but I usually win by being prepared. If you’re prepared, aggression is rarely required.

If krav maga failed I have back ups. I grew up in rural Iowa. Everyone had guns. I have three Ruger SR9s stashed in the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen. It’s a small place but if I’m to the point of wanting a gun I don’t want to have to go far to get it. There is always a risk in a hooking up. I know some argue to never let a hook up know where you live. Not me, I almost always play at home. I feel safer here than in a strange hotel or someone’s house. Plus this isn’t really my home. I spend a few months here a year, always beach view casino siteleri but not always the same room. If things get too weird I can pull up stakes, head some place else. That sounds paranoid but I believe in contingency planning when at all possible. That philosophy has served me well and I see no need to abandon it.

So, when some deeply closeted post-orgasmic douche asks me what the fuck I’m doing, well that is one instance where I almost immediately get pissed. My usual response is along the lines of “sucking the dick that got hard by watching me play with my own dick, that’s what you dumb mother fucker now get the fuck out of my face”. Usually that is enough to send them on their way. I worry sometimes what might happen if things progress. Krav maga is intended to maim, if not kill. Oh well, I can afford good lawyers.

All this passes through my mind as I settle myself in the corner of the sofa. I shake my head, trying to clear out this overly heavy shit, amazed that my mind can zip from “will they walk out” to “claiming self defense after a post cock-sucking killing”. No wonder my wife left me.

Chad has slumped against the back of the sofa and Amy has collapsed against him. I lean back against the arm of the sofa and risking pulling a leg up on the couch and letting it rest against Amy’s thigh. I am embarrassed at how happy I feel when she moves her arm over and starts to caress my leg.

I try to keep my hands away from my cock. Nothing is likely to happen for a while, let the poor tormented member take a rest. The three of us simply sit; the only movement is Amy’s hand on my leg. I let my erection fade. My dick leaves a wet trail as it rolls down my leg. I imagine I hear a faint plunk as it falls off my leg and hits the sofa cushion. I feel a smile flit across my lips. My poor couch. My dick is leaking on it. Amy made, literally, a puddle under her ass and I’m guessing Chad’s post-ejaculation oozes tops my precum ooze. My poor couch, except it isn’t really my couch.

I suppose I can flip the cushions and hope whoever gets this room after me isn’t one of those “check every surface with a UV light” types. The place would light up like a college head shop, or at least a college head shop in the 80’s when everyone in a head shop wanted to pretend it was still 1969. I was two years old in 1969 so I couldn’t really comment on the accuracy of the décor. I know some version of what we called a head shop still exist but I will hazard a guess that black light posters did not survive. I pray to God black light posters didn’t survive anyway.

The last time I was in a head shop was in ’89, the summer after I graduated college. A girl I would marry a few years later took me to buy a bong. Neither of us smoked much but at that time in my life she was more adventuresome than I was. I remember being confused that summer about a lot of things, but Ann figured prominently in the chaos. I was especially confused the day of our little shopping excursion. Was buying a bong a friend kind of thing to do or a boyfriend girlfriend kind of thing to do?

Ann moved to the top of my “what the fuck” list early in our senior year when it hit me how much I was going to miss being around her. When we both got acceptance letters to the same med school I was more ecstatic about going to med school with Ann than going to med school itself. I had no idea that I would never actually use my medical degree to practice medicine. I didn’t know whole boatloads of shit back then.

Ann had been in my freshman bio class, just one face in a class of over 200. I’m not sure I even remember seeing her in that class. By our junior year the classes were much smaller and those of us serious about grad school tended to see a lot more of each other. We ended up in a group of four or five that often shared one or two classes and studied together.

Our little group hung out together a lot, our study group morphed into a circle of good friends. The drinking age for beer in Kansas at that time was eighteen, so there was plenty of that, plenty of midnight viewings of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”. The first time I ever got high was before seeing that movie. The fucking movie started to make sense and that really freaked me out. That intro, plus my poverty, kept my weed consumption well within manageable limits.

Ann and I weren’t always with the group, sometimes we found ourselves hanging out together, but I don’t believe either of us considered them dates. She had a couple boyfriends during that time. She would bitch about what jerks they ended up being and I’d offer appropriate sympathy and support. I date some but nothing serious.

My sophomore year I had a gen ed sociology class in Fraser Hall. I was enrolled in the college of biological sciences and that was my first class in the building. I was taking a leak one day and realized the guy two urinals down was jerking off. Like I said I was an Iowa farm boy. My first reaction was shock, and then amusement, and then I felt my dick start to get hard.

That was the first time I was really conscious that something might slot oyna be different with me. I had not dated seriously in high school. I was a fall through the cracks sort of kid. The logical clique for me was the ‘farmers’ but there was no way I intended to stay on the farm and even less chance I would join Future Farmers of America and wear one of those dorky jackets with a cross section of an ear of corn on the back. I didn’t drink or smoke in high school so the ‘stoners’ wouldn’t have me. I would have fit with the ‘brains’ but they were suspicious of the fact I played sports. I didn’t really qualify for the ‘jocks’ either. I was an all around athlete, a very mediocre all around athlete. I ran cross-country but always finished in the middle of the pack; I was an okay outfielder, a slightly better batter and a barely adequate football player. I never got settled into one position. I was too small to be a good defensive player and not agile enough for offense. I started some but was never the star.

The upshot was I spent a lot of time in showers with naked dudes and I cannot ever recall my gaze lingering on anyone. So, I was totally flabbergasted to realize I was getting turned on watching some guy stroke his meat.

I ran.

I went back though, not that day, maybe not even that week but I did go back. I never did anything; I just watched. If someone made a move toward me I’d bolt. I rarely took my dick out, and never jerked off to completion but I watched. Guys were always sucking each other off in there. There was a double door, which was why the place was so popular. At the sound of the outer door opening, everyone scrambled to hide their hard-ons in a urinal, or ducked into a stall. Half the time, the guy who came in would stand there, scope out the scene and before long have his own cock out. That shit went on all the time. On occasion guys didn’t seem to mind if I stood at the door of a stall and watched them fuck. I would get so hard it hurt but I only watched.

I watched and became more and more confused. I loved messing around with girls but I was still a virgin. I was popular enough but never seemed to be in the right place at the right time with a girl who was in the right frame of mind. There was plenty of petting, a lot of boob play, a reasonable amount of fingering, an occasional hand job, and on one occasion even half a blowjob that turned into a hand job but never any actual fucking.

Graduation came and I was still a virgin. Ann had started to figure prominently in my jerk off fantasies but I assumed we were hopelessly caught in the “we’re friends” trap. That changed the afternoon we bought a bong together.

The bong had nothing to do with it. We had no weed to smoke anyway. I’m still not sure what happened. Ann said she was tired of always supplying the means to smoke and I should get my own bong. If I smoked grass more than once a month it was unusual but I wanted to spend time with her and, I admit, I was no longer thinking of her as just a friend; I didn’t want her to think I was a pussy who was afraid someone would see him duck inside a druggie store.

The head shop was completely and totally fucking whacked. If you ever doubt that for some people weed is not a good idea, visit a head shop. Fuck.

Ann tried to get me to buy one of the gigantic bizarre glass blown contraptions, clearly for no other reason than to embarrass me. I settled for a simple, small, smoked glass bong. We carried it back to the small apartment I rented above a truly obnoxious old lady’s garage. She was obnoxious but thought it was 1952 or something. I had a decent bathroom, kitchenette and living space, utilities, except cable, included and the use of one of the garage spaces and all for $75 a month. For that rent I could abide obnoxious.

As we walked up the stairs it occurred to me that Ann had never been to my apartment alone. The realization both excited and terrified me. I told myself I was a moron, that there was no reason I should be either terrified or excited, a friend was stopping by to kill some time, big deal. I stepped aside to let Ann go ahead of me.

The semi-comatose Amy whose naked thigh my leg rested against has a gorgeous butt; she is truly a Hot Ass. But Ann, Ann was in a different league. Ann had been wearing a pair of volleyball shorts. This was the late 80s and shorts were very short. Watching her walk up the stairs ahead of me I knew that Ann’s ass was the uber-ass from which all others were pale imitations. The gaggle of female derrieres I had ogled the past few years were mere shadows on the wall of Plato’s cave. Ann’s was the Ideal Female Butt that cast those shadows.

Her shorts rode up as she climbed, affording me a glimpse of where the roundness of her ass merged and was transformed into her thigh. Ann was a runner and a deadly serious extracurricular volleyball player, hence the shorts. She had legs that seemed too long for her average height. As already stipulated her ass was sculpted by a master and I got so lost in berating myself for not paying more attention to her butt over the past two years that canlı casino siteleri I walked right into her when she stopped on the landing.

“What the heck Vince? Trying to knock me off the stairs?” She tried to sound exasperated but she didn’t pull away from my accidental touch. Instead she gave me a playful hip check that landed close enough to my crotch to make me flinch.

She punched my shoulder twice in quick succession. “Two for flinching.”

A squeezed past her on the narrow landing, fumbling for my key and using that as cover to ease my growing erection into a more comfortable position.

“No fair, you don’t have testicles. If you did you be wary about someone slamming their hip into them too.”

Ann snorted. “If I had balls I would have asked me out by now.”

I glanced over my shoulder as I opened the door, honestly confused. She had never seemed to want more than to just pal around or was I missing something?

She stared at me for a second then gave me a goofy eyed gaping Howdy Doody-esque grin and shake of her head, indicating she had grave concerns about my intelligence and ability to care for myself without a keeper.

More baffled than I ever I entered my humble abode and stood aside to let her in. After she past me, I turned to close the door, pausing to see if my old lady landlord was peering out her back door. I didn’t see her but waved just in case. Nosy old biddy.

When I turned around I almost dropped the bag with the bong. I began contemplating throwing the door open and abandoning Ann, my apartment, everything, perhaps even medical school, and making a run for it. Ann was perusing a Penthouse, beyond her several more lie scattered.

Out of the corner of her Ann saw me freeze. Her face wore a smirk when she looked over her shoulder. She had crossed over to the ratty old couch cover with a sheet that hid the stuffing that spewed from the splits in the cushions. The rest of the room was typical poor college student décor, lots of cinder blocks and unfinished wood. The coffee table was a 2×4 section of plywood resting on four cinder blocks. It, and the floor between it and the couch, were adorned with several of the Penthouse magazines I favored over Playboy. Worse, the probably still damp tee shirt I wiped up with last night rested by her foot.

Our shopping trip and her visit had been impromptu. I had not expected company.

“Fuck me,” I whispered to myself.

“Whoa-ho Vince boy, have you been naughty?” Her voice was giggly with amusement, all of it at my expense. She flipped open to a page and began to read:

“I flipped ice cold drops of margarita onto Cathy’s nipples. As I bent to taste their sweetness Cathy’s hands pulled my rock hard rod from my trunks.” Now she really did giggle.

“Pretty hot stuff Vince. Your mom know you’re a perv? Any of the letters from you? Remember you have to start it with ‘I never thought I’d be writing’ after that you can lie through your teeth.”

I recovered enough to be able to speak.

“Nah. I don’t think they could publish my exploits. The Supreme Court obscenity ruling didn’t do that far. Besides how do you know so much about Penthouse forum?”

“Right. I’d believe you if not for the fact that after three beers you start moaning about how you’ll die a virgin. Three older brothers that’s how.”

I sat the bag with my brand new bong on the small kitchen table and stepped to the fridge. I could cook a meal and sit down to eat without taking more than two steps. Sometimes I miss the simplicity of those days.

“Want a beer? Soda?”

“You got any tea?”

“I grew up in Iowa and this is Kansas. I am never, ever, without whole milk, Wonder Bread, my Bible and between March and late October ice tea. Sugar?”

She shook her head, which was bowed over the magazine. “No thanks. You think any of this stuff is real?”

“Absolutely, every word,” I responded with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “No of course not. I think there are, at most, three guys, all in their mid-50s, diabetic, single, obese and living with their moms that write 90 percent of those letters.”

I opened a Rolling Rock for myself and carried it and Ann’s tea to the couch. I set both on the plywood table before plopping onto the couch. She inched around the couch, still reading, and sat down.

“Why do you get them then? Is it the girls or the letters?” She sounded genuinely curious.

“Girls mostly but some of the letters are pretty wild, even if they are total bullshit.”

Ann moved down the couch and sat beside me, our legs almost touching. She laid the magazine out on the table.

“So who do you think is the hottest?” Her voice conveyed only interest, not lust or judgment.

I flipped to a pictorial toward the back. The woman wore cut off jean shorts and a plaid shirt. The man wore jeans and down at the heel boots; he was shirtless. They were in the desert, behind a mound of boulders, as the pictorial progress there was a blowjob, cunnilingus and finally fucking. At some point in the layout every part of the woman’s body was visible. When it came to the man, only his pubes in the v of his unzipped jeans, a side view of the base of his cock just visible below her arm, and his flexed ass as he stood between her legs was on display.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Genel içinde yayınlandı

Bir cevap yazın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir