Very long ago in the early Nineties, when I was about 25, I was living in London and doing my best to become a famous author. It was a hard grind, and you probably won’t be surprised to know I didn’t make it. But I tried. Every now and again, I’d hand my stuff to my friend Katrina to read and type, and eventually to submit to yet another publisher in order for them to promptly reject it. She’d volunteered for the job, and whatever the results, she was good at it. She was a born saleswoman, and during the day she made a living by cold-calling people to offer them various goods and services. She had cropped, Mia Farrow-style hair, feline green eyes, a long, thin-lipped face, and firm and full breasts, but she tended to conceal the richness of her body rather than set it off, to disguise it under rather severe , knee-length skirts, tweed jackets, raincoats. Everyone knew her as Kat, although in the privacy of our bedroom, and with her encouragement, we sometimes adapted this to Pussy. She came from a northern English town. She was five years older than me, and very sophisticated. She had read Kierkegaard, Proust, Mann in the original.
Overall, the friendship was a mixed success. Kat brought in her commissions, and I did whatever freelance work I could, but between us we were just breaking even. We lived in a small, boxy house which we rented in a borderline neighborhood in west London, and when it rained, which it seemed to do all the time, water dripped through the upstairs ceiling. Neither of us owned a car. But we had enough to put food on the table, and most nights a bottle of wine, and after that we sat up talking in the tiny back garden or, in winter, climbed into bed together to get warm and read to one another. The sex was pretty fair. Kat’s sensible wardrobe extended to her underclothes, which tended to be utilitarian, although sometimes she surprised me with a brightly-colored novelty item of singularly sparing cut. She always made those sort of decisions. Looking back on it, she was probably what could be called the dominant sexual partner, and I do seem to remember once being contentedly tied face up to our bed while she explored me with a soft pair of panties, and another time when, all of us having had rather too much to drink late one night, she suggested I doff my pants in front of her and another woman. (I obliged.) She was a really exquisite-looking woman, with a perfectly flat belly, long legs, a trim sex, and it didn’t surprise me to learn that she’d occasionally worked as an artists’ model in the past. Sometimes she told me about the sensation of posing for all those strange men and women, knowing they were looking at her, and as she described it for me she liked to rub her breasts with her hands. Sometimes this made her come. That was the cue for her to fling herself against me, furiously, and a second orgasm then often came, like lightning striking us both. In the final moments before release, Kat sometimes chose to abandon her British reserve and fire questions at me as she writhed on the bed. How was my cock? ‘Oh God, your penis is big now, isn’t it – does your penis want me? Show me. Show me your fat prick. You like that, don’t you – you like showing off your cock. You show it to other boys, don’t you? Do they suck it? Do you like licking boys’ cocks? Tell me.’ Then, changing tack: ‘Rub your penis in my panties. Smell them. It’s big, isn’t it? Is it coming yet? It likes fucking cunts, doesn’t it? You fuck girls’ cunts all day, don’t you? I can smell all their wet pussies on you. Tell me about them. Do you fuck their bottoms? You do, don’t you? You fucker. Do you spurt your milk up their bottoms? Tell me’, and so on.
Still, there was room for improvement. It’d be fair to say there was a certain sameness to the bedroom routine, fun as it was, and that after a year or two of just about making it work some of the gilt had flaked off the marriage as a whole. Maybe it was this that led me to blurt something out to Kat when I was inside her one night, although the bottle of cheap wine we’d just polished off may have been a factor, too. Anyway, what I said – playfully, you understand, and taking a leaf out of her own book – was, ‘You fucked all those men who drew you, didn’t you?’
And what Kat said was, ‘Maybe I just fucked all the women.’
Looking back on it, the only hint up till then that Kat might be a bit sexually undiscriminating had come one wet Saturday night when we were watching the movie The Manchurian Candidate in our local cinema. For some compelling reason, there’s a scene in the film where a strikingly attractive blonde woman peddles off somewhere on a bicycle while wearing only a small white bikini. Apparently, it had aroused Kat’s sensuality. ‘I wish I was that bike seat,’ she’d whispered, pressing her leg against mine in the dark. Immediately we got home that night, she’d dragged me into the living room and we both ended up rolling around on the floor there, Kat rubbing up against me, moaning, lifting her dress. For Christmas that year she gave me a coffee-table book lavishly illustrated with photographs of girls’ bottoms - ‘For us,’ she inscribed it; all artistically done, and nothing you wouldn’t share with a close friend, but still a bit of an eye-opener.
A couple of miles away from us in London there was a young woman I’d known for a long time named Cynthia. She was then about 22, slim, dark-eyed, gorgeous, and what the Brits call ‘a character’ – almost always laughing, no matter what happened to her. When a fire once burnt down part of her flat, Cynthia laughed. When she broke her leg skiing, she laughed. I met her through some mutual friends when we were both teenagers – all innocent stuff, although we may have enjoyed what the locals call some ‘slap and tickle’ – basically, a friendly hug and a kiss – once or twice in the years before I got married. Cynthia herself was single, semi-employed selling gypsy clothes in a shop somewhere, and she was a breath of fresh air in that rather heavy, impoverished atmosphere we lived in in those days. She only had to walk through the door and it was like the sun coming out all over London. Her two favorite phrases were ‘Why not?’ and ‘Let’s do it’. So it was a shock, but not entirely a surprise, when, sitting with the two of us in a pub one night, and fortified by a couple of the dynamite-strength house cocktails, Cynthia happened to mention how positively she’d react to any invitation we might care to make her to join us in our bedroom – ‘Just to watch,’ she immediately added, giving a characteristic laugh. Controlling very imperfectly the erection I’d got the instant she’d spoken, I turned to Kat for her reaction. She said nothing, although I could tell she was at least faintly amused by the prospect. A couple of nights later, when we were alone, I brought the subject up again. ‘I don’t really care one way or another,’ I said, sounding as casual as I possibly could, ‘but Cynthia seems to like it.’ Kat didn’t actively discourage the idea, and with a bit more shuttle diplomacy on my part, a date was fixed on a Saturday night a couple of weeks in the future.
When the great evening came, it was raining as usual. Cynthia appeared at the door, bedraggled, wearing what was probably one of her own store’s floaty print-dresses, festooned with various turquoise rings and bangles, a sort of latter-day hippie with a touch of Stevie Nicks about her. Kat had on her familiar Saturday-night jeans and warm sweater, nothing out of the ordinary. I can’t remember the meal being that special, either, although there was a lot of cheap red wine involved. Two or three bottles worth. Kat more or less sat there, Cynthia kept up her typical droll commentary on her week, all about her adventures in the shop and this one buxom, middle-aged customer ‘whose tits kept falling out of her top’, and I tried to keep focused on politely carrying peoples’ plates and filling their glasses, rather than on the prospect of what waited overhead. Throughout all this, there was a steady, lashing rain at the window, and - Cynthia’s best efforts aside- a sort of tired and sluggish atmosphere at the table. Kat, I noticed, was quieter than usual, and, it has to be said, didn’t exactly look like a woman about to embark on transports of carnal delight. At one stage she looked over at Cynthia and said, ‘What did you do today? I know young chicks always enjoy talking about themselves.’ I had the disturbing impression that she was preparing for some sort of war to break out between the three of us, and could only imagine the question was satirical in light of the fact that Cynthia had actually done little else up till then but tell us about her day. Anyway, there was then a silence except for the sound of the rain hammering outside and a steady dripping sound within, which I knew meant the ceiling was leaking again, until, as if suddenly making up her mind about something, Kat picked up her glass of wine, finished it at a gulp, banged it down on the table, and said, ‘I’m going up.’
Cynthia and I gave it five minutes, and another couple of fortifying drinks apiece, and then followed her lead. The lone bedroom was in darkness, or at least it seemed to be as we groped our way down the hallway, now a little the worse for wear, towards the door. But when I found the handle and ushered our guest in we saw that there was a candle burning on the low wooden bookcase, dimly showing off what was the best room in the house, such as it was – all fake oak paneling and heavy Moroccan drapes, with exotic plants, and a fat old armchair covered in shawls, and such a soft rug that your footsteps weren’t heard. After a moment or two, my eyes adjusted to the light. Behind me, Cynthia gasped slightly.
Kat was lying on the bed. She had removed her jeans and sweater. She wore a striking silk camisole that left her shoulders bare and was held in place by two wafer-thin straps. It was at once exquisitely beautiful and so flimsy you had the feeling the whole thing would fall from her with one shake, slip away like a silk sheath. Below her waist she’d eschewed what she called her ‘sensible workaday knickers’ and adopted instead a pair of flaming-pink panties, cut tight, and as we entered she arched her back so as to throw her breasts forward and the crotch high.
Taking this as an invitation, I fell to the bed between her legs, and was dimly aware of Cynthia sinking to the armchair behind us. I kissed the inside of Kat’s knees. Her legs were long, pale, and alabaster smooth. She moaned, and again arched – actually, bounced on the bed – as I moved upwards. I began to lick the fuller and warmer flesh of her thighs, my hands, under the silk, on her breasts. As long as I’d known her she’d been trim and sleek, but now I realized with an uncontrollable twitch of my cock that she was completely shaven, as bare as a newborn, as I edged my mouth onto the velvety, plump folds of her mound. We’d practiced this routine many times before, and we both liked to do it without removing her underwear, so that I slid around the edge of the panties with my tongue, the fabric bunched and pushed up into her wetness. I lived for this moment. Kat bucked again, and seized my head with her hands, grinding me into her. Years later, I can remember the closeness of it, and feeling ecstasy at tasting her cunt and feeling it flood me. After she came, I lay in the semi-darkness, still sucking at her now almost yawningly wide sex, with a voluptuous feeling all over my body I couldn’t control. Kat squeezed my face with her legs and gave out a low, contented noise, like a purr. ‘I love you,’ she said.
This is the part of the story where there’s full-on sex, so traditionally I should first tell you all about my monster penis, and just how many women I’ve driven to the very brink of sanity with it over the years. But I won’t do that. Instead, I’ll just quote two quick excerpts from some erotically charged greeting cards Kat sent me. They may throw some light on the matter. She used to do this when in a certain mood, though you could never quite tell when: sometimes there’d be two or three cards in a week, and then nothing for the next six months. Over five years there may have been a total of about fifty, and along with a few other cherished souvenirs I’ve still got two of them here on the desk in front of me.
Anyway, the first is pretty straightforward stuff. It’s a card with a soft-focus, black and white photograph of a nude woman on the front, languidly contemplating her breasts, in which Kat describes a prelude to lovemaking:
‘I begin by kissing your eyes, your nose and your sensuous lips. I put my tongue in your mouth and kiss your lips for a very long time while I run my hands through the hair on your chest and down the inside of your thighs. I then kiss and lick you from your neck to your navel while lightly fingering your huge, round erect prick. I kiss you between your legs, letting my tongue linger over each of your small, tight balls. Gently I take each of them in my mouth and suck, kiss and lick them while guiding your attention to my engorged clit and soaking cunt.’
The second surviving card sounds a bit more in the realm of fantasy, or else I’m pretty sure I would have remembered it.
‘Yes, I want to cherish the sensation of your big, erect penis entering my soaking, ready cunt. But you will have to be well prepared beforehand. I know that every man will stick his tool indiscriminately into any wet hole he can find, and that the aroma of pussy clings to it long afterwards. Yours will be thoroughly washed and cleansed of the residue of all the other cunts. I shan’t stoop to this menial job myself. It will be performed by a young woman of about 19, dressed for the occasion in a simple, scrubbing-girl’s smock, with thin, white gloves, whom you can think of as my Katamite. Should you wish to proceed you will follow my instructions to the letter. These will involve you standing perfectly still in front of my helper while I observe from a comfortable chair. On my command, you will lower your pants and the girl will without comment take hold of your erect cock. Working from the fat, red head down the shaft to the little boy’s balls, she will methodically apply a wet sponge, not forgetting to work it into the crack behind. Neither of you will speak or in any way react beyond the strict confines of the procedure, or you can consider our arrangement at an end. On completion of her duties, the girl will hold your prick between her right thumb and forefinger for my inspection. If satisfied with the result, I may then choose to photograph your penis in close-up, while the girl poses it and the balls with her gloved hands, in order to share later with my women friends. When there’s nothing better to do, I often update them on you, casually discussing every part of your body, the color of your skin, your long legs and your tight bottom, your smell, every bulge of your muscles, and, above all, the big, bulbous, always hard shaft of your cock. Some pictures will nicely illustrate my claims. Should any drops from the sponge remain, I may at my discretion instruct the girl to remove her panties and use them to thoroughly dry the area. This will afford a brief glimpse of her dark young bush, which, again, you will ignore. (If she has inadvertently wet her panties with her vagina, I may substitute my own. I shall remain sexually calm throughout.) Following this, there will be a second visual review. A single teardrop of cum at the tip of your penis may be removed by the girl’s tongue, but otherwise you will not be relieved in any way. If you choose to lose control and soil either the girl or myself, again, our arrangement will be terminated. Having passed my frontal inspection, you will be required to turn, bend over, and spread open your bottom for my appraisal of that area, which will include a minute rear study of your tight balls. These, too, will be photographed. Only then may I submit to your attentions, which the girl will discreetly watch without comment.’
Over the years, Kat and I had developed a solution to the small-ball problem alluded to above. I’m no doctor, and anyone tempted to try this for themselves at home should do so with all due caution, and only within the comfort zone of both parties. But it worked for us.
The basic idea was that I would stand naked in front of Kat, who took in her hand a long, beautifully silken dressing-gown sash we kept nearby for the purpose. Forming a loop with this, Kat would use it to encircle the base of my penis and my balls. She then pulled the sash slightly tighter. The immediate, visually gratifying (and painless) result was to enlarge my scrotum to something more like the regulation size. As she often remarked, it was as if she had rapidly blown up a small rubber ball. Kat then let the two ends of the sash drop between my legs, drawing them backwards into the crack of my bottom, and up again over the small of my back, then gathered them firmly in her hands. By tightening the sash an appropriate degree, we found my penis was kept almost permanently hard, and my balls were correspondingly enlarged. In this posture Kat lay back on the bed and I mounted her in the traditional manner. As we fucked, at her leisure she could pull on the two ends of the sash she held in her hands, drawing me deeper into her. In an ideal situation, which was quite often, we were able to harmonize the pulling motion with the thrusting of my body as I penetrated her. Sometimes Kat referred to this very process during coitus, by calling out, ‘I own your big cock!’, or words to that effect.
That’s how we made love (or as Kat sometimes had it, ‘bonked’) now. I admit to an extra frisson of excitement as she lowered my pants and draped the silk noose around me, knowing that Cynthia, silent but observant, was watching in the chair just a foot or two behind us. Kat then pulled on the sash and I was suddenly inside her, her own panties bunched but somehow still on, as smoothly as if falling into water. With each measured jerk of the reins I felt a pleasurable, almost orgasmic tightening in my balls, the sash, now frantically controlled, drawing my cock in and out, to the very tip of my wife’s cunt. I had time to think that the whole scene, with my exposed bottom, and the sight of my bound balls, and the silent appraisal of the girl behind me, was all quite close to the fantasy one in Kat’s card, except that in this case the writer of it was lying on her back, legs spread wide apart, breasts out, insistently urging, ‘Fuck me! Fuck me!’, rather than acting the dispassionate observer of her story.
Anyway, I lay over her, happily encouraged by the sash, and my penis slid deep into her. It seemed made of hot iron. Soon we quickened our mutual thrusts, Kat now wrenching me in, and saying hoarsely, ‘Come on. Come on, come. Give it all to me now. Give it to me, you fucker. Fuck my cunt. Fuck me now.’ At these words, she began to moan, and again to buck violently on the bed, and came both with a cry and a warm gush from between her legs, which thrashed wildly for several seconds. If not simultaneous, my own orgasm soon followed in the general melee. For some moments after that, we lay perfectly still, and then in the candlelight I saw Kat rise up and peer over my shoulder towards the end of the room, and with another less sharp, even affectionate tug of the sash, I was given to understand that I should look too. Cynthia still remained in the armchair. But, abandoning her policy of strict non-participation in the scene, she wasn’t so much sitting as sprawling in it almost full-length, her head back, legs apart. Her right hand was under her dress. She was caressing herself so furiously that we could hear the chafing sound of her fingers, and (Kat confirmed this later) smell the deliciously charged musk from under the thin skirt. For some time the three of us remained in this abstracted state, Cynthia rubbing and sighing, Kat and I, still coupled, watching. Then out of the silence, a woman’s voice said, as in a dream, ‘Why don’t you join us, then?’
At Kat’s words, I admit my penis again suddenly stiffened.
‘Why not?’ said Cynthia, her habitual response, and with a quick rustle of clothes was on the bed.
Kat and I withdrew from each other to accommodate our guest, who immediately stretched out between us on her back. After a decent interval, I raised her skirt. She wore flesh-toned stockings and a pair of white or cream-colored panties, a large dark spot visible between her legs. Like Kat’s, her skin was beautifully smooth – youthful, supple, and tender. The stockings were gorgeous. I edged my tongue upwards, inside the crotch of the panties, and inhaled her damp sex, more raw and primal even than Kat’s. There was another sensual contrast, I soon learned, between the two: Cynthia was not only unshaven, but gloriously au naturel, with tendrils of thick pubic hair springing out into my mouth. Wild and rich, it brushed against my face and deliciously teased my nose as I moved up and down. The one vista presented a neatly clipped lawn; the other a jungle; both were exquisitely beautiful. As I lapped eagerly between Cynthia’s legs I glanced up to see Kat, her interest in the bisexual having now passed from the academic, leaning low over Cynthia’s mouth, kissing, her bare breasts swinging down. I flung myself to my work, it could be said with truth soon literally drinking from the red, swollen sex, so prominent even in that half-light. As I licked her, Cynthia undressed; or at least the shoes and the skirt and then the panties fell around her, although, to my pleasure, not the stockings. When I next looked up, Kat’s tongue was repeatedly flicking at Cynthia’s exposed, and very full, nipples. As I watched, she would fall on them and lick at their pink tips, and then straighten up again, her own breasts bigger, rounder, darker. Obsessional images of beautiful, bare-breasted women pursued me as I worked ever faster at Cynthia’s cunt. Before long there was a sob, and she was clenching me in place, her sex quivering as she came, and even Kat, in the darkness, was crying, ‘Come. Oh, you sweet cunt. Come. Oh, make her come.’
Afterwards, the three of us lay there in a sort of sexual daze, Kat at the head of the bed, Cynthia in the middle, me below. The room smelt divine. My penis was up again, and I edged myself above Cynthia’s dark and wide-open sex. When I did this, she looked up at my cock, ran her hand lightly down the shaft, and then quickly inserted a finger into her cunt. I watched as she withdrew it, then, turning from me, offered the finger to Kat, who eagerly sucked it. For a few moments they seemed to concentrate all their feelings into this exercise, simulating the movement of a small penis in and out of Kat’s mouth. Then Cynthia again touched herself, caught my eye, and said softly, ‘Not there. Not tonight.’ To this day, I have no idea if something about her mutual exchange with Kat had made up her mind on the issue, or if there were some other, more practical reason involved. Either way, I wasn’t to rue her decision for long. Turning swiftly on to her stomach, Cynthia thrust out her hips, her buttocks thrown fully against my face. For some time, I admit I’d enjoyed the shape of them when clothed, and now I wasn’t disappointed: they were classically round and full, with a winking little aperture, and the stockings somehow elevated the whole spectacle far beyond mere sex. It was a breathtaking prospect. I must have crouched over her for a moment, frozen in place with a mixture of surprise and pleasure, because as I did so Kat silently took down a jar of scented cream from the bedside table, applied some to her hand, and, still without comment, inserted her finger into the crack of Cynthia’s bottom. A moment later, she was repeating the process more vigorously, pulling the finger in and out as Cynthia herself moaned with apparent satisfaction. Kat later told me that she’d felt an agreeable tightening and contraction as she went about her business, ‘almost as if I was fucking her.’ Her finger made a sucking sound as it was taken in by Cynthia’s ass. Then, after some more of this, Kat suddenly paused, seemingly to survey her work, and firmly said to me: ‘She’s ready.’
We arranged ourselves thus: Kat, again, at the top of the bed, her legs apart; Cynthia crouching amidships, face down, her hips thrust up, me mounting her from behind. I should mention that the silk sash was still tied around me, and Kat took the opportunity to maneuver this again as I entered Cynthia’s rear. Over the next few minutes, I think it fair to say we satisfied our most violent appetites. Cynthia’s bottom bucked to and fro, sometimes almost ejecting my penis, at other times seemingly glued to me, all but one person. The brushing of her hole on my cock was like the friction of a tight hand, pulling and squeezing, and there was the added inducement of my wife and her continuing deft puppetry with my balls. As I thumped against Cynthia’s buttocks, I saw her fingers stretch up, seeking out Kat’s breasts and lips, and soon there were sighs and moans to be heard from that general area. At the very end, in the male paroxysm, I hurriedly pulled out of Cynthia’s crack and rather imperfectly aimed my orgasm – a piston-like thing, with five or six violent jets – in Kat’s direction, with some of it finding her hair, shoulders, and breasts, through with other traces we later discovered liberally dotted around the bed. I can only say it was an uncontrollable release that shook my entire body, with even my toes in a wild spasm. When I finally collapsed, Cynthia took the practical approach and eagerly licked the sperm from Kat’s mouth, neck, and nipples. Somehow, there was no vulgarity or profanity about the whole scene: just two free-spirited, beautiful women who both carried an ironic smile and a satisfied expression. After a bit, Kat released her grip on the sash and slid down the bed to first inspect, and then lick, my penis, which was not a normal part of our repertoire. It was an erotic bonus for me, as was the knowing look I saw her give Cynthia as her wet mouth came up from my cock. She told me next day that she’d relished the taste of ‘cum, cunt, and that girl’s dirty bottom’ combined on the tip of my penis. Later that night, a communal shower finished the job.
The following morning was Sunday, so the three of us took our time around the house. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Cynthia’s panties were found to be in need of a wash, and while this was being done Kat generously lent her a pair. It’s only fair to record that these were not quite her slinkiest such item, but nor by any means were they among her ‘sensible workaday knickers.’ I remember them as a pale orange or lemon color, silk, frilly, and at least a size too small for their occupant. Eventually we all found ourselves downstairs again, clad in T-shirts and underwear, and I admit I enjoyed watching Cynthia’s bottom , so recently and brazenly on display, as it swayed to and fro, straining against the meager silk. As she reached up once, a curl of her beautiful bush could clearly be seen from between her legs. I looked over at Kat. She had noticed me noticing Cynthia. There was a smile on her face.
