[Events detailed here are from one sexy night in May of 2012.]
Olivia is one of my favorite high school classmates, though this opinion doesn’t make me unique. Rumor has it that when it came time to vote for Senior Superlatives for the yearbook, she won the vote in five different categories. But the administration wanted to spread the wealth, and asked her which one she wanted so that they could give the other honors to the second-place people. She drifted effortlessly between the cliques, from nerds to jocks to band geeks to freaks to smarties to fashion slaves, and seemed to have close friends in each. To a far lesser degree, I did the same, and so we crossed paths often in school. Like dozens of others, I carried a bright, flaming torch for her.
Through Facebook, the great stalking tool that it is, I have been able to keep up with her adult life. She travels often in her work as a corporate trainer for a pharmaceutical company, has a teenaged son and daughter (who is blessed to have her mother’s eyes), and struggled through a difficult divorce last autumn. I found it highly amusing that the Facebook page for the reunion was something of a cyber ghost town before Olivia posted her RSVP. It didn’t seem to be a coincidence at all when the confirmations began to flow in, shortly after her announcement.
Camille and I were running a little late on Saturday, and had to hustle not to drift too far past our 3:00 target time for leaving the house. We checked into the hotel around 4:00, and had a couple of hours to shower and dress before the 6:00 cocktail hour began. We were assigned a room on the third floor, half a hallway down from the suite that the reunion committee had been given in order to gather their party favors, flowers and to attend to assorted details that give me a headache just to think about. While Camille showered and fussed with her hair and makeup, I wandered down to the suite to see if there was anything I could do to help.
We’ve posted previously about the little mini-reunions that are held a few times a year for all the graduating classes from the 80s. Fortunately, Camille has accompanied me to those events, and has made friends with around twenty who were in attendance Saturday night. As important as it is for her to let me roam about and talk to people, I would hate to leave her completely alone with no one to talk to. This was not an issue at the reunion, as she immediately spotted Jennifer, one of her favorites from my class and someone who is close with Olivia, as well. After chatting with Jennifer and getting a drink for Camille and myself, I left them behind to mill about the registration area to see who was showing up. For some reason, I completely missed Olivia’s arrival.
By the time I noticed her, she had found Jennifer and Camille, and the three of them were all smiles, talking simultaneously and exchanging compliments on one another’s choice of attire and accessories. I approached Olivia from behind and tapped her on her shoulder. She turned and gave me what could best be described as a full-body hug, and told me how great it was to see me after all these years. “I see you’ve already met my wife, Camille,” I said, and she assured me that the two of them were well on their way to becoming the best of friends. Olivia makes you feel exactly that way.
She wore a black one-shoulder cocktail dress, with her sandy brown hair in a braided ponytail that was offset to the same side as the single strap. The exposed skin on her left side showed a healthy tan, evidence of her recent training trip to south Florida. Her open-toed black heels gave her the appearance of being taller than her five-foot-five frame, and her rose petal pink pedicure was fresh and professional. Walking behind Olivia, Camille and Jennifer when the ballroom was opened to us was a pleasure. Olivia’s dress was not as short and provocative as Camille’s, but still showed plenty of leg. It was obvious that she took care of herself.
The four of us took places at a ten-seat table nearest the dance floor, and listened as the chair of the reunion committee welcomed us. I attempted to keep track of their conversations over dinner, as they ricocheted between career talk, the challenges of raising teenagers as single mothers, and still more compliments on each other’s attractiveness, but I became increasingly distracted. I have never mastered the ability to resume a topic of conversation immediately after an interruption, and the well-wishers who steadily came by to visit with Olivia would have stopped my chat dead in its tracks. Women, however, are different creatures with different abilities, and Olivia and Camille never missed a beat in their animated discussions.
I was also distracted by the amount of touching that was going on between them. Camille uses her hands a lot when she speaks, and touches me often to make her points and communicate her feelings. Olivia is much the same, and the two of them looked as though they would break into a game of patty-cake at any moment. I thought I detected a bit more, though. Something more…tender and affectionate. I shook my head and wrote it off to wishful thinking. Until the music started and people began to fill the dance floor.
To put it mildly, I am not much of a dancer. Camille understands this and doesn’t pressure me and I, in turn, never let any jealousy show if she chooses another man or woman to dance with. It is our understanding. Olivia and Camille knew all of the same line-dance steps and were equally excited by whatever cheesy 80s music came through the speakers. Sometimes they danced in groups of ten or more, and sometimes they sort of drifted off together to one corner of the parquet floor. Either way, I grew more and more aroused by their interactions, in spite of myself. I feared that I was setting myself up for disappointment.
We were to have the ballroom until midnight and as the hour approached, the crowd of attendees thinned. We exchanged hugs with people as they departed and swore to do a better job of keeping in touch. My friends on the reunion committee began to gather the items that would need to be taken back upstairs, and Olivia and Camille joined me in helping them. Jennifer had long since retired to her room with her date, with Olivia and Camille engaging in bawdy, tipsy speculation as to what they might be up to. They giggled loudly about knocking on their door as we passed it on our way to the hospitality suite, but decided against it.
As we tried to help put things away in the suite, the ladies grabbed a couple of the Jello shots from the banquet table and toasted their new friendship. I stole Camille away for a moment and took her to an available sofa, eager to find out whether she was enjoying herself as much as she seemed to be. Olivia bounced from one group in the suite to another, hugging and laughing with everyone in her path. She found us again after a half an hour or so and, to my utter surprise and delight, sat down on my lap. Instead of leaning back onto me, however, she rested herself at an angle so that her head was resting on Camille’s shoulder. Masked by the din of the chatter in the room, Olivia looked the ceiling and said, softly, “Would it be terribly greedy of me to want to take both of you to bed?”
Camille and I leaned forward so that we could make eye contact with each other on either side of Olivia’s face. Camille said nothing, but winked at me. After what seemed like a long time, I managed, “Why, no, Olivia. I don’t think that’s greedy at all!” I was surprised I was able to get the words out. Olivia stood up, looked at us both and bit her bottom lip. “Give me thirty minutes? Oh, and what room are you in?” We nodded and gave her the room number, and watched her flit off through the door of the suite and into the hallway.
Camille and I bid a hasty farewell to our remaining friends in the hospitality suite, took each other by the hand, and walked quickly to our room. I checked my watch as Camille slid the card key into the door. 12:30. As the door to our room swung open, my theatre training kicked in, taking me by surprise. I began to think atmosphere, wardrobe, positioning. Setting the mood for what Olivia would see and feel when she arrived in thirty minutes. I did not allow myself to consider the possibility that she wouldn’t show.
Camille stepped into the bathroom to freshen up, and I busied myself with tidying up our mess and flicking lights on and off until I found the right balance. The room had a balcony, which was nice, but the ambient light from the world outside was intrusive and harsh. I pulled the curtains tight, surveyed the room once more, and finally allowed myself to get comfortable. As I slipped off my shoes and socks, Camille emerged from the bathroom. It amazes me, sometimes, how we seem to be in the same frame of mind without vocalizing our plans. She wore but two articles of clothing: a short floral silk robe and, as I could see through the nearly translucent fabric, the black thong she had worn under her cocktail dress. Precisely how I would have dressed her, had she asked.
I removed my jacket, watch, tie, belt and slacks, and rolled the sleeves of my white dress shirt to the elbows. I kept on my black boxer-briefs, and smiled at the realization that Camille and I each had on two garments, both quite representative of our gender. The bedside clock radio read 12:50. I poured both of us a drink from the bottles we’d brought along (we are nothing if not frugal), and presented Camille with her bourbon. She smiled broadly, stacked the bed cushions behind her, and settled onto the bed with her Kindle. I admired her ability to relax, under the circumstances, and silently vowed to myself to do the same.
I settled into the big easy chair beside the bed, sipped my scotch, and suddenly understood that the worst case scenario for the night was that I had Camille all to myself. She had turned me on to no end, all evening long, and I was so proud to have her on my arm. For a worst case scenario, that was pretty fucking good. I almost didn’t hear the soft knock at the door, through the fog of my own self-satisfaction. Camille closed the leather cover on her Kindle and put it on the bedside table. On my way to the door, I paused to kiss her deeply. “I think we’re on,” she purred.
Olivia’s own sense of presentation was evident as soon as I opened the door. She had posed herself in the doorway for maximum effect, her right hand high on the door frame and her hips tilted left. Her right foot was crossed in front of her left, and she twirled a small silver zippered purse around and around her left index finger by its strap. I smiled and allowed myself an extra beat to examine her. She wore thin replica baseball jersey, the kind a single woman might sleep in, and though it was thigh-length, I could make out the lace trim of the white boy shorts she wore underneath. Two articles of clothing.
She read something in my eyes and guessed, correctly, “You didn’t think I would come.” She looked both ways down the hotel hallway and, content with what she had seen (or had not seen) walked past me and into our room. She put her left hand on my cheek and let it slip down to my chest as she made her way by. I closed the door, with the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside handle, and secured the latch and deadbolt. Behind me, I heard the bedsprings creak a bit and Olivia’s greeting to Camille. “I adore that robe!”
I went back to my chair and sat on the edge of it, with my elbows on my knees. Camille had turned onto her side, her back to me, with her torso raised and supported by her left elbow. Olivia sat on her heels on the bed, her knees only inches from Camille’s belly. Disclaimers followed, with Olivia speaking first. “I just want y’all to know that I’ve only done this — you know, with a woman — a couple of times. But Brad moved out a long time ago, and I’ve been so busy with the kids that I have neglected myself. A lot.” In a gesture of reassurance, Camille extended her slender fingers and laid her right hand on Olivia’s bare thigh. I felt a tingle.
“I understand completely!” Camille offered. She had raised her sons alone for years before I came into her life and had refused more date requests than she could count, in order to be there for them. “But I should tell you, before anything happens, that we have a strict no-penetration rule, with Holden. That’s just something we don’t do.” Olivia leaned forward, and in a stage whisper cooed, “I will play by whatever rules y’all have.” She reached for a loose end of the belt of Camille’s robe, glanced at me, and added, “I just want to play.”
Camille rose to her knees, mirroring Olivia’s body position, and softly kissed her neck. A woman’s touch is so sweet and subtle, but always moving with a purpose, and I marveled at how their hands explored one another in these first moments. Camille found the hem of Olivia’s shirt, snaked her hands underneath and gently clutched her narrow waist. Shifting her weight from side to side to part her knees just slightly, for balance, Olivia untied Camille’s robe as they began to kiss, softly. With her eyes still closed, Olivia raised her left hand in my direction and beckoned me.
I unbuttoned my shirt as I walked and let it fall to the floor behind me just as I reached the far side of the bed. I positioned myself behind Olivia, my knees between her calves, and took her hips in my hands. I watched as Camille moved her hands up Olivia’s back, beneath her night shirt, using her nails to lightly caress the sensitive skin along her spine. Olivia trembled lightly, and then transferred those trembles to Camille when she found my wife’s rapidly stiffening nipples with her fingertips.
I leaned forward, finding the exposed skin on the left side of Olivia’s neck, and nibbled as gently as my enthusiasm would allow. I kept my eyes open, in part to thrill at the intuitive way that Olivia was touching Camille’s breasts, and in part to learn from it. Camille extended her arms along Olivia’s shoulders, and found the back of my head with her hands. She ran her long fingers through my hair as her kisses with Olivia grew more urgent. I moved my hands up Olivia’s torso, beneath her shirt, and began to manipulate her swollen nipples in the same way she touched Camille. In a whispered exhale, Olivia breathed “Oh…fuck…”
She opened Camille’s robe further, and moved to slide it off of her shoulders. Camille assisted, allowing it to fall from her body to the floor. Olivia reached for the hem of her own shirt and, partially due to her zeal at removing it and at least a bit because of her alcohol intake, tumbled over to her right as she jerked it over her head. She could not even move to brace herself as she fell onto the generous stack of pillows, and she laughed aloud in her embarrassment. I took the shirt, which was tangled around her wrists, and tossed it in mock frustration across the room as she settled herself into a comfortable position on her back. As Camille and I leaned forward to kiss, across Olivia’s prone body, we each felt one of her hands on the back of our heads.
Until Olivia, I had never encountered anyone who came close to rivaling the degree to which my skin radiates heat when in contact with the flesh of another. (She would tell me later that, after sex, her ex-husband would have to go and sleep in the guest room because their shared bed was too hot for his comfort.) My fingertips tingled from the warmth of her bare legs, and I marveled at how quickly the thin trail of saliva I created, as I glided my tongue along her abdomen, evaporated with the heat.
Camille had resumed her previous position, on her left side with her elbow anchoring her raised torso. She and Olivia alternated between long, soft kisses and nuzzling one another’s neck. Camille’s right hand roamed leisurely on Olivia’s chest, lingering in the places that made her breath quicken. I elected to tease. My lips, tongue and fingers were busy, to be sure, though I avoided direct contact with the glories that remained hidden beneath her panties.
Olivia again was the first to break the silence. “I am being selfish. I think it’s Camille’s turn now.” Camille did not argue. She rose quickly, laced her thumbs into the waistband of her thong and quickly dispatched it to the floor. I knew what I had in mind, and I moved to her side of the bed and guided her down to its edge. Olivia took a couple of the larger pillows and created a spot for Camille to rest her head, as I knelt on the floor between her legs. Her labia were slick and wet, long before my tongue made contact.
I took my time, exploring Camille as I always have, but allowing her to revel in the attention she was receiving both from me and from Olivia’s mouth. Her nipples are particularly sensitive and, in essence, the key to her ability to climax. Olivia obliged with skill and eagerness, pinching one with sucking the other, then pausing to nibble her earlobes and her neck. She was particularly fond of Camille’s magnificent flat belly, and loudly moaned her pleasure at being able to study it with her mouth.
When I brought my full attention to bear on Camille’s swollen clit, and her thighs began to spasm and close tightly against my ears, she said to Olivia, “I’m sorry, but I have to have him. Right now.” I looked up in time to catch the broad smile that spread across Olivia’s face, which grew even wider when Camille added, “But I’ll share.” I knew precisely what both of these statements meant, and I dropped my boxer briefs to the floor and lay down on my back in the center of the bed. In order to ensure that my cock was fully at the ready for her, Camille gripped it tightly and took the engorged head into her mouth.
Olivia made a sound that I recognized as meaning that she was pleased with what she saw, and simultaneously envious of Camille. She knelt beside Camille as I spread my thighs wider to accommodate both of them. Olivia gripped the thick base of my shaft tightly, and Camille made use of the assistance by relaxing the intensity of her efforts. Playful revenge, I thought, for the fact that I didn’t dive straight for her clit earlier, when I knew that’s what she wanted. Satisfied that I was at full mast (I had been there for at least a half-hour), Camille moved up my body, straddled me, and guided me into her.
Her previous statement that she wanted to play echoed with me when Olivia spoke again. “I understand that this seat is taken,” she said, placing her hand on the small of Camille’s back and caressing her ass as she began to ride me. Then, turning her finger toward my face, continued, “But what about that one?” Camille sat up straight, kissed Olivia tenderly and whispered, “Enjoy.”
Olivia never averted her gaze from my eyes as she crawled toward me. For the first time since the evening began, our lips met. Her tongue was soft and playful, reminding me that mine needed to be, as well. Camille’s breathing was already becoming fast and shallow, though her thrusts against me were slower than they would have been if we were alone. Olivia threw her left leg across my chest, inching forward until her knees were pressed to the outside of my shoulders, gripped the headboard tightly, and slowly lowered her hot, pink flesh to my mouth.
Her pussy was blazing hot, and remarkably wet. I extended my long tongue and held it still, allowing her to tilt her hips until her clit was making contact at the perfect angle for her. Camille leaned forward, changing her own angle, and rested her head against Olivia’s back while she drove her ass backward against the top of my thighs. I raised my hands to Olivia’s chest, spreading my fingers across her breasts. Olivia’s leg muscles began to quake, and I knew it would be long before she came.
No man who truly delights in a woman’s orgasm should live his life without the pleasure of feeling two women simultaneously use him as an instrument of her passion. I thrilled at the familiar contractions of Camille’s vaginal muscles around my cock, and her throaty moans. She clenched Olivia’s hips, since she couldn’t reach my shoulders, to brace herself as she rode the waves of her pleasure. This final piece of physical stimulus was all that was needed to send Olivia over the edge. “Oh…fuck!” she breathed again, much louder this time, and she pressed herself hard against my tongue. Evidence of her bliss burned my lips and left narrow, hot trails down my chin.
Without a word, Olivia reached over to her silver pouch and pulled out her Rabbit. She reclined on her back, next to me, turned it onto its highest setting, and began to work it into her. Camille crawled over to her and covered Olivia’s right nipple with her mouth. The site of her beautiful ass in the air was an instant inspiration. I stood beside the bed, took her hips in my hands, and slid myself into her again. I watched Olivia’s toes curl as a second orgasm shook her to her core, and felt that my own could wait no longer. “Yes, baby. Yes,” Camille urged. I thrust into her deeper and faster, and at long last, filled her with the biggest, most intense orgasm I have ever had.
We collapsed. On my back, between the two beautiful women, I replayed as many details as I could remember, attempting to sear them into my brain. Camille curled up on my left side, her left arm and leg draped across me as we usually sleep. Olivia, apparently in order to keep from scalding me, fell asleep with her back to me, with only a bit of her ass touching my right thigh. At first light, she was gone. I don’t think I dreamed the tender kiss she gave to me and Camille before I heard the door click closed behind her.