THE INVITATIONWould you turn it down?.....

Boundaries and propriety: What do they mean? The mind and body seek freedom from conventional rules, to embrace liberation and sexual release. But what is the price? Or can there be a price, if there are no boundaries? We were laughing, discussing those ideas abstractly, smoking cigarettes and drinking wine on the terrace of the Hibiscus Café, posturing in a harmless game.

Then you paused and smiled in a gesture of mild embarrassment, whispering, “Can I ask something?” The mood had changed; a heightened emotional charge had descended.

“Of course.” I smiled in tender but cautious encouragement.

“Would you ever watch me fuck another woman?”

My first impulse was to cough in a startled response. The following sensation was more curious, an awareness of deviant warmth as I contemplated the idea. In the calm moment, sustained by the glow of Chardonnay, I was vulnerable to suggestion. Of course, I was charmed by your manner; the request seemed almost innocent, conspiratorial.

And then I asked, laughing, “Who?”

“Does it matter?” You answered, “It was more of a rhetorical question, to test your response.”

I extinguished my cigarette and looked sideways in your direction. “I find that hard to believe. With that kind of enthusiasm, you must have a specific person in mind.” I smiled as I said the words, as if to provide a tender encouragement that I couldn’t summon in speech.

You hesitated before continuing. “You know her slightly; Marisol, the architect from Uruguay; I can’t even explain how the idea came up—she suggested it when we were at the building site. But she was adamant that you be there to watch, she described it as a ‘gesture of respect’ for our relationship.” I imagined Marisol, and first felt a mild spasm of jealousy that quickly turned to empathy; she embodied a distant exotic ideal, almost an abstraction, not exactly of beauty, but a latent carnality, more a symbol than a woman. I could remember her brown nipples emerging brazenly through the sheer fabric of her dress, plump and straining, wordlessly demanding notice. I had felt compelled to pinch them, to observe her instinctive physical response.

I laughed, but forced the reply. “Come on! How did this conversation go? These things don’t come up so easily.”

“It was almost childlike. She said, ‘I really like the company of you and Debra and…’”

I interjected, “And she said, ‘…and I’d like to fuck you in front of her’? It seems almost improbable, unless something was lost in translation.”

“It was almost like that; I respected her courage.”

“How chivalrous! And have you fucked her before?

You smiled, almost modestly. “No, of course not. That’s why I’m expressing myself so candidly.”

I believed you, of course, and relished the tender, even perverse, openness of the exchange. Watching the customers emerge and depart and I imagined that I glimpsed Marisol for a moment, short of stature but voluptuous, elegant and contained, not imperious but merely self-aware. Seeing you fuck her was a spectacle I might relish.



“Invite her over, of course. We’ll consider it an experiment.”

“Done.” We shook hands in conspiracy; of course, I felt a slight ache of regret and hesitation. I recognized the sensation that often follows in the wake of an impulse, an impression that descends to earth as ardor fades. Yet my curiosity remained.

The event, for all the primal ease I had imagined, began awkwardly; I phoned and invited Marisol myself. It was a strategic gesture, and I wanted to give her my vote of confidence, and perhaps even a measure of liberated encouragement, but she seemed hesitant on the phone. Her voice trembled, and we never spoke directly of the act. We talked about wine and entertainment, encoding the language of fucking and voyeurism. I could envision her on the other end of the line, her carnal majesty hidden by distance, perhaps wearing a sweatshirt as she washed dishes, reduced from an object of desire to an earthbound figure. Before I hung up the phone I whispered, “I expect a rollicking performance when you fuck my husband, dear.” My voice trembled slightly, hiding the theatricality of my performance. Yet I had undeniably aroused myself; I could feel a delicate invasion of moisture in my panties and I lowered the phone to briefly play with my clit, summoning the delicious image of the act to come.

I spent the day in preparation, or lack of it. I was more focused on selecting a wine than imagining the events that would follow, and painstakingly searched for a Uruguayan vintage before abandoning the hunt. I was being generous enough to surrender your body to her whims, I imagined, unless she considered me the beneficiary of her kindness instead. She arrived wearing a white pants suit, which belied her discomfited expression as she lingered on our threshold. At first, I thought her choice of wardrobe was perfectly unsuited to the risks of spilt red wine, but I loved the idea of innocence sullied, or rather sexual enthusiasm exposed; I imagined her lips, covered in lipstick the exaggerated hue of blood inhaling your cock, relishing it for my amusement, but she merely sipped her wine as we stood in the living room, lingering as if we were part of an invisible, larger gathering, never settling into ease. Our eyes scanned the bookshelves, lost to different spheres of thought.

I finally asked her, “Marisol, you imagine yourself quite adventurous, I understand?”

“That might be an exaggeration, perhaps.” She gazed in my eyes only briefly; the aura of the huntress emerged and then dissipated.

“I mean, do you have sex often?” I regretted the bluntness of the phrase, but imagined that I needed to forge an immediate path to pure candor. I wanted the act were to occur in the proper spirit,

“Not terribly often, but…” She giggled in response, half-aroused and half-defensive.

“But you divide your attention between many men? You like to try different cocks?” I smiled, desperate to inspire a detailed response.

She answered, maddeningly, “Yes,” and then continued to scan a series of art books, withdrawing one volume before timidly returning it. She laughed. “I apologize; sometimes I have trouble finding the right words for the right moment.”

“No need to apologize; we’re friends here.” I realized that I had spoken curtly, and sipped my wine and looked at you, standing marooned at the margins of the conversation, silent and tentative. For a moment, your thoughts remained impenetrable, and the dithering of the key players heightened the enigma of the situation. If you both wanted to fuck so badly, it found it deeply ironic that I should play the ringmaster.

“Please, Marisol, let me take your glass.” I spoke the words of a hostess, with the tone of a seductress. I had become impatient, and wordlessly, I removed her jacket, delighted to see her bare arms exposed. And in another impulse, I held her wrist and licked it, a gesture between a kiss and a caress, then handing it to you, who first gave it a hesitant, fraternal peck before licking it more carnally. I massaged her shoulders, which felt remarkably loose, tranquil and composed, and I imagined that I sensed her true essence emerge, radiant and primal, as I smelled her perspiration rise, luxuriant and pungent, a silent signal of her arousal. Like a brute, I licked her armpit and she leaned back and closed her eyes; no, she clenched her eyes as if she were both escaping the moment and surrendering recklessly.


I relished the response, and proceeded to remove her sleeveless blouse, kissing her on the cheek as I observed your capricious smile, the grin of a detached and bemused observer. As I discarded it, thrusting it downwards with half-excitement and half-violence, I was delighted to see that Marisol had decided to remove the rest of her apparel herself, quickly and without drama, the maneuvers of a patient under observation. She was unaffected and unashamed, the unearthly poise confirmed by her abundant pubis, dramatically swathed in dark and curly hair, immodestly unshaven. I reached over to her crotch, fingering an errant tuft, feeling an infusion of moisture, observing the puffy emergent labia and emergent outlines of her entire pussy. I wanted to insert my finger, but withdrew honorably. The privilege of entry would belong to your cock.

I invited her to sit in our Wassily chair, an unusual request; its contours appeared severe, incompatible with human habitation, made of angular leather and chrome, an architect’s fantasia. But she occupied the seat with a voluptuary ease that redeemed its form. As you approached, its severe angles evaporated, banished into space—only her naked form remained in my thoughts as you leaned forward. I first imagined you advancing towards a thoroughbred or a fine wine, moving with the poised hesitation of a connoisseur, but as you began to lick the interior of her thigh, I abandoned thought altogether, lost to a new array of impressions. You accelerated your ascent and she first laughed, almost in mockery, but as you reached her pussy you marshaled your confidence and began a series of strokes from top to bottom, savoring what I envisioned as fecund and uncontrollable even from a distance, noticeably wet, a primeval riot of scents. You repeated the motion, plunging your tongue into her vagina, varying your motion as she shifted backwards; you reached her clit through a continued ascent, achieving the distant objective, flicking your tongue rapidly as she pulled her nipples and squealed something incomprehensible, perhaps not even Spanish but the blunter idiom of sexual abandon.

I loved watching you salivate all over her cunt; your juices mingled as your generous spittle dripped all over her plump clit, which almost appeared to pulse, ardent and swollen with arousal, a compass of her mounting stimulation. I could see her ass quiver, the flesh shuddering as if your brief attentions had awoken the specter of an orgasm. She clenched her eyes in a gesture of forlorn agony, her lips silently fluttering in a silent request.

And then, trembling, she rose up and grasped your cock through your trousers. I could see it straining, standing out in relief as she unzipped it desperately. Trembling, she struggled with the button and spread the waist almost ceremonially. Her manners had emerged, and I watched as she endearingly folded your pants and placed them on the couch. But courtesy was fleeting: She practically inhaled your cock, pulling it into her mouth, salivating, seemingly unwilling to offer customary strokes or anything resembling measured technique; she seemed to be devouring the shaft, unwilling to release it. I could see her little fingers clasped tightly around the base, gripping the entire girth with astonishing ardor as she alternately jacked you off and sucked your entire length. Finally, she leaned back, restoring her breath, murmuring, “Dios…”

You were calmly observing, but exhaling more rapidly, whispering inarticulate phrases; you were enjoying yourself, naturally, and I felt a warm onrush of affection and solidarity as you looked into my eyes while you pinched her nipples, caressing the curves of breasts that were perhaps too ripe and enlarged; they almost appeared to surge downwards, as if to announce their luxuriant arrival. I was envious; I would have loved to touch those fucking tits as they heaved, swelling, impelling you to tweak them with greater force. Marisol shrieked endearingly.

I finally laughed. “Come on…fuck, you two.” It was less a gesture of encouragement than an attempt to acquire control of the game. And you both responded, moving your operations to the couch. I was startled with the impulsive ease with which you penetrated from her behind, a surprising but delightful choice for a debut position. You grasped her hips and I could see her copious flesh accommodating your clutch as you fucked her rapidly, much faster than you would screw me at the outset of a session. I almost issued a warning cry of concern, but I decided to disrobe and masturbate as you plumbed her depths, pinching my own nipples and slapping my clit, exhaling in near synchronicity with your furious strokes. I smiled at the way you appeared to overwhelm her expectations. She looked at the painting on the wall, wide-eyed, half-ecstatic, half-agitated, as if she were immersed in an unfamiliar vortex of sensations.

To the observer, watching another couple fuck is gratifying, but demands diversity; I was tiring of the sight of your cock plunging into her pussy from the rear. I demanded an alternate angle, laughing as I cried out “switch it up, Romeo,” feeling myself arrive at the verge of coming, my thighs wavering as I tickled my clit. But you had anticipated my command, and I could see you mount her in missionary position; she wrapped her plump thighs around your back as you fucked her with measured, but still forceful strokes. In the midst of your efforts, you appeared to wrestle with the temptation of leaning downward to kiss her; first, you licked her neck in compromise, then pecked her on the cheek, then on the lips before rapidly inhaling her little wavering tongue. Perhaps the image became overwhelmingly intimate at that moment, exclusionary, rejecting my presence. I contemplated the subtext of your original request and the unknowable dialogue occurring in your mind; I could relish your inflamed organs pumping, but not a tender kiss.

And then I heard you moan as I rubbed my entire pussy with my hand, trying to summon a wave of pleasure to transport me from the moment; I saw you come inside her, pumping inwards in three tell-tale, quivering strokes. She stood up, squeezing her thighs together as a rivulet of white, milky come descended, proof of your intimate ejaculation. I rushed forward, impulsively grasping her ass, feeling the delicious flesh between my fingers as I leaned towards her pussy, its dark and fertile scent arriving in a potent wave. I opened my mouth and sucked her fleshy labia, ingesting the trickling stream of your come, tasting your familiar essence, reclaiming you in spirit as I detected a note of her own pungency. I was determined to repossess you.

Neither of you objected to my gesture. You embraced, almost ceremonially. At first, there seemed to be no catch, no subtext, only the warm smolder of declining vigor and the faint smell of semen and perspiration. But then I observed what appeared to be an unnatural tenderness; of course, it was unfathomable—I could not read your mind, but it made me resolve to turn the tables, if only gently, in the spirit of the game. I would make my own request and you could draw your own pleasure as I took Marisol’s place, riding another man’s cock, radiating the same rapturous gaze that you now broadcast into her eyes.

I leaned forward and licked her calf. Today I was a conspirator, but tomorrow I would be a full victor.

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