Darin’s face was so close to the top of my bustier, I could feel his breath. But he didn’t move closer. Richard’s hand rested on the hem of my skirt, but he didn’t lift it. “If it pleases you, ma’am. Your husband would like to hear you scream when you come.”
Max was such an asshole. But I wouldn’t deny either one of us sharing my virgin analingus orgasm. I nodded and reached beneath myself, gripping the edges of the chair. Darin moved the phone right up next to my lips. With his other hand, he opened the top of my bustier. He lifted my breasts free, then bent his head to my nipple. He licked as my hem lifted. Richard’s fingers slid up my leg, dipping down in front, sliding on to my slick, swollen clit as Darin sucked my nipple into my mouth.
Carlos was licking in circles again, gentling my anus to relax, seducing it to open further.
“If it pleases you, ma’am.” Darin’s breath was hot on my wet, pebbled nipple. “Your husband suggests you bear down hard when Carlos really starts tongue-fucking your asshole. He says that’ll open you wide enough for him to get in really deep. He says it’ll let you come so hard you’ll see stars.” Carlos was probing again. Darin kissed, blowing softly just before he latched on again. “Your husband respectfully requests you come so hard your scream blows out the microphone on the fucking cell phone.”
My laugh came out somewhere between a moan and a cry as Carlos’ tongue once more pressed flat on my anal gate. This time, though, when he pressed in, I pressed out to meet him. His tongue slid in deep. Then it was out. And in. And out. I bore down hard, again, reaching for his tongue with my asshole as he once again slid in deep — and stayed. As I pressed against him, he licked the inner walls of my sphincter. Then he was tongue-fucking me again.
The pressure was starting deep in my belly. Darin’s talented lips on my nipple and Richard’s equally talented fingers working my clit were beyond exquisite. But the orgasm was starting deep in my asshole. Starting where Carlos was fucking my asshole with his tongue. As the splendour raced up through my body, I screamed, “Don’t stop! Please, don’t stop! PLEASE!”
I wailed as the orgasm tore through me. Darin’s lips were locked on my nipple, sucking hard as Richard’s hand kept up its relentless pace. And Carlos’ tongue — Carlos’ exquisite, perfect, angelic tongue — was buried deep in my asshole, wiggling but not pulling out as my spasming sphincter clamped down like a vice around him. Something hot and wet hit my leg. My asshole clenched so tight I was certain I’d push him out. But Carlos’ tongue stayed deep, letting me glory in the ecstasy of my first true anal orgasm. When he finally pulled back and kissed my quivering anus, I was still shaking so hard, I almost fell off the chair.
I looked down at the torso beneath me. This time, I wasn’t going to have to take my boots to the man beneath me. Carlos’ chest and belly and Richard’s arm and my leg were covered with glistening white puddles. A final line of semen dripped from the head of Carlos’ now only half-hard cock.
I lost track of how many times I came — and how many times they changed places. Eventually, I told Max I’d talk to him when he got home. I hung up and watched a chick flick he hated and ate more bonbons and drank my sparkling water and even some champagne Darin brought me from the kitchen. I called my girlfriends. There’s nothing in the world quite like sipping bubbly and watching movie stars with tight butts making slow tender love to their women — all while chatting up a play-by-play of the movie with my totally vanilla best friend from college. With each breath I took, an anonymous tongue beneath me worshipped my quivering pussy or my equally tingling anus.
Max got home shortly after I’d sent the others on their way. I fucked him so long and hard, I even wore him out — no mean feat for a man renowned for his stamina and horny beyond belief from listening to me come over the phone. He rolled me over on my tummy and slid his lube-slicked cock up my still hypersensitive ass. I screamed and came again, milking the juice from his cock as he grunted and growled and told me he loved me.
The next day, I was still so horny, I jumped his bones before he was even all the way awake. Max didn’t get the reputation he has in the pussy department by being a slouch. He took me out to dinner in a classy restaurant, we renegotiated our sexual agreements, and by the next Friday night, he’d arranged for his three now wildly enthusiastic friends to join us again at the house.
This time, it was definitely going to be “us”. Max still wasn’t going to climb beneath the queening chair. But he was going to feed me peeled grapes and tell me dirty stories and kiss me and suck my tits when I came. When he got too horny, he was going to jerk his dick, but he wasn’t going to let himself come until after everyone else had gone home. Then he was going to fuck me in every orifice I wanted. No matter how many times I’d already climaxed that evening, he was going to pleasure me enough to be sure I came at least one more time — with him.
Goldberg Variations
Lisabet Sarai
Harvey and Al stood in the chill drizzle beside the muddy grave.
“Damned inconsiderate of Richard, dropping dead without any warning,” Al commented.
“I’m sure that he didn’t do it deliberately. Certainly he would much rather have attended one of our funerals than vice versa,” observed Harvey.
“No doubt. He only cared about himself.”
“Well, to be fair, he put a lot of effort into the trio.”
“Right. His trio, he used to call it.”
“Whatever. It’s been our bread and butter for twenty-two years, so don’t knock it.”
“Sure, but what are we going to do now? There’s no work for a violin/viola duo.”
Harvey sighed. “Obviously, we’ve got to find another cello. I’ll put an ad in the Times next week. It shouldn’t be too difficult; there must be hundreds of starving musicians in New York.”
“Yeah, but can they play Bach? We don’t want someone whose repertoire is restricted to ‘Yesterday’ and ‘Endless Love’.”
Harvey had a pounding headache, and the rain was beginning to drip down underneath the collar of his topcoat. His brother’s negative attitude was all too familiar. “We’ll just have to see, Al. We’ve got a full schedule for the next few months. We’ll make do with what we can get.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the chauffeur, waiting under an umbrella beside the hired limo. “Let’s go. Everybody’s probably back at the house by now.”
The two-storey Brooklyn row house was packed with a boisterous, hungry crowd of relatives and friends. Harvey offered some obligatory greetings and accepted routine condolences. Finally, he managed to escape upstairs to the study.
It had been their father’s space, first, and then, since he had been the trio’s business manager, Richard’s. The walls were decorated with autographed pictures, their father shaking hands with Yehudi Menuhin and Pablo Casals. Then there were posters from some of their tours (“The Goldberg Trio, Live at Pittsburgh Symphony Hall”) and replica covers from their four recordings (The Goldberg Trio Plays Classical Favourites).
Dad would have been proud, mused Harvey. Wouldn’t he? It was hard to know.
On the bookshelf stood a picture of the three of them with Dad. It had been taken at Coney Island, not long after Al’s mother died. Everyone was trying valiantly to appear happy.
The three boys didn’t look much alike, but that was hardly surprising. Dad had divorced both Richard’s and Harvey’s mothers. Al’s mother, sweet, red-headed Emma, had been taken by cancer.
When Dad died of a heart attack only a few years afterwards, he left the row house to his three teenaged sons. The half-brothers had made it their home ever since.
Harvey realized Aunt Nelda was calling him. His father’s sister was frail but the years hadn’t diminished the piercing quality of her voice.