Kate placed the plate of hors de oeuvres on the flat limestone rock and lowered herself into the bubbling warm water. Although there was an underwater ledge-like seat around the entire periphery of the hot tub, she chose to sit shoulder to shoulder with me. “Which one’s mine?” she asked. I was caught off guard; still reliving the image of her walking across the patio 99% nude.
“Huh?” was my stupid response.
She pointed to the two full beer glasses adjacent to the plate: Stella or Goose Island. She selected the Stella and I the Goose. We toasted.
“Here’s to the rest of the evening,” she said. We locked eyes and began to drink. I believe cold beer is meant to be chugged, so I didn’t stop with simply a sip. With smiling eyes, she matched me swallow after swallow until we had emptied the glasses. She laughed and turned the glass upside down on her head. Tada!
“You’ve got a beer mustache,” she said, leaning over and wiping my upper lip with her index finger. She brought the sudsy fingertip back to her own lips and excruciatingly slowly pushed the tip into her mouth.
After extracting the digit from her mouth, she began, “So, I hear you’ve been a bad boy. Just so you know, Ryan is a little bitch and always kisses and tells. Don’t get a big head, but she told Jean you ‘fucked her silly’ as she put it.”
I wasn’t exactly sure if that statement (seemingly out of left field) required a response or not, but what popped out of my mouth was: “I’m glad she liked it.” Kate grabbed my head and dunked me. After I stopped coughing, I said, “Next time I’ll lie.”
“I think I need another beer” she stated. Before I could be a gentleman and go get our drinks; she stood up and climbed up on the seating ledge, one foot on each side of my thighs, effectively straddling me. She leaned forward, elbows on the top flat limestone rock, as if she were standing at a tall boy. The tiny wedge of wet black fabric of her thong was pressed squarely against my face.
She called out, “Ryan, would you be a good girl and bring us two beers?”
It was pretty clear to me the “new bitch in town” was Kate and her poozle needed attention. I absolutely love eating pussy and that is exactly what I did. I slipped the thong to the side to expose her pubic area and snatch. I was pleased to see that her carpet matched the curtains. Actually, she had more of a throw rug, dark brown, Asian silky, and trimmed into a one-inch wide chevron. I touched her clit lightly with the very tip of my tongue just once; then slowly ran it down the inside of her left labia to the base of her vagina, lingering for a few seconds at the curve just short of her taint. Before proceeding up the opposite side, I inhaled deeply her scent. Despite the faint odor of pool chlorine, there was no mistaking the subtle aroma of the mildest of mild lemon sole. Her pheromones gave me an almost overwhelming sense of being punched in the solar plexus.
I licked up the inside of her pink right labia until I reached her love button. I lightly stimulated it with a combination of tickling it with the tip of my tongue and by sucking. I could feel a small, but definite erection of her penis equivalent.
My efforts had the desired effect, as her pelvic grindings were mashing my head back against the first layer of our grotto’s boulders. She presumably had been biting her fist. I heard a muffled and guttural utterance: “Fingers, fuck me with your fingers.”
With my left thumb and index finger, I spread her labia to give my tongue full access to her clit; while simultaneously penetrating her vagina with my right long finger. I curved this finger behind the pubic bone in search of the small rough patch of her G-spot. Upon finding it, I stimulated it by repeatedly flexing and unflexing the digit: slowly and gently at first, then more rapidly and forcefully to match the rhythm of her bucking. I knew she was close to orgasm, as her breathing became more erratic. With each breath, her lower belly pounded my forehead; then it stopped. She was holding her breath: the anoxia planned to heighten the impending brief moment of near amnesia and full release.
Her orgasm came seconds later; her body stiffened, she exhaled abruptly and she evoked the deities. With one hand, she pushed my face away from her clit and my finger from her vagina. She cupped her privates with this same hand and rolled her thighs inward in an almost protective fashion. Fifteen seconds passed and then it happened.
As Kate was regaining her composure and starting to stand more erect, there was the unmistakable sound of high heels clickity-clacking on pavers and a shriek of “You c*nt!”
Note: I don’t typically use the C word. In our household growing up, uttering it would result in a mouthwashing with Ivory soap. The C word was banned from word games like Scrabble, even if the C might land on the triple letter or triple word score space. Uh-uh, no, never.
Anyway, there was a splash, then another splash; followed by the clickity-clacks retreating from the pool. Kate shouted, “You little bitch!” Just how many times would I hear that curse this evening?
I had a pretty good idea what Ryan had done. After all, beer was dripping down Kate’s breasts and belly. Any other time, I’d be turned on (well, truth be told; I did have a schtubby tenting my board shorts) and lick the lager off her peach fuzz. But this was not any other time.
Kate was in the process of frantically climbing over the grotto’s boulders, using me as a ladder. I grabbed her thighs and pulled her back into the spa, no doubt abrading her forearms in the process. She was dunked. When she surfaced, she shouted, “I hate you,” and lunged forward.
Instead of striking me, she pressed her open mouth against mine in an almost feral fashion. She forced her tongue into my mouth and held my face with both hands. I wrapped my arms around her torso and pulled her tightly against my chest. She stared intently into my eyes and gasped, “Fuck me now.”
I really wanted to obey her command. I wanted to lean her over the pool coping, rip off her thong and doggy her, pounding my thick meat in and out of her longing pussy. But I knew deep down this was neither the time nor place for coitus.
I broke our embrace, pulled her back into the grotto, and sat her down on the ledge. I told her revenge fucking was a really bad idea. Her response was disconcerting.
“It’s not fair. You’ve fucked everyone else. Why not me?” It struck me square in the face. I was just the group’s boy-toy, the jelly of the month.
I hopped out of the spa, tiptoed across the even hotter pavers and headed to the pool house. I avoided the sex den john on the left, opting for the right. I took a long leak, washed my hands and splashed water on my face. I asked the mirror, “What have you gotten yourself into?” There was no answer, so I grabbed a hand towel and dried my face. I stopped in the den of iniquity long enough to retrieve my Reefs and Oakleys, then grabbed a couple pool towels.
Kate was still sitting in the spa, sulking. I gave her a hand out of the pool and wrapped her nearly naked thoroughbred body in one towel and slung the other over my shoulder. I pecked her cheek and whispered in her ear,“You need to apologize to Jean for making a scene. Do it now. It’ll only get harder if you stall.”
Her response was reassuringly civil. “I know, let’s get it it over with.” And with that, we headed over; Kate through the back door and into the kitchen, me to the group of guys watching NASCAR and drinking shots of Bulleit Frontier.
My eyes followed her as she approached Jean. They first hugged and then laughed. Rather shockingly (or not), Kate pulled Jean into a more intimate embrace and with her right hand tilted Jean’s face up for a sensuous and lingering kiss. After what seemed like ages, Jean broke the kiss, smiled, and slapped Kate on the ass, as she turned and walked deeper into the house.
Without my asking, Roy poured me a shot of sour mash. I downed it in one swallow and he poured a second. I held this one and started to apologize for the ado. Roy cut me off in mid-sentence. “No apologies necessary. It wouldn’t be a party if those two weren’t fighting.”
I must have looked dumb because Bo turned to Marty. “What’s it been? Two years they been hooking up?”
“At least,” was the response, with a nod of Marty’s head.
A guest named Chance stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Meg’s husband. He asked for another pour, was accommodated by Roy, and raised his glass.
“Here’s to pussy! Oh, right Senator; here’s to cock!” We all laughed and downed the liquid fire.
I hadn’t paid much attention to the other wives. Meg and three other women were reclining in chaise lounges at the far end of the pool. Meg and a brunette were sitting up, topless. The third in line was prone and au naturale. The fourth was sitting up and wearing a black one-piece. Roy saw where I was gazing and suggested we go over and be sociable.
Roy handed me a fresh Stella and took the empty shot glass (a crystal 12 gauge shotgun shell). We headed over, Roy’s right hand on my left shoulder. I guess we were now BFFs or at least butt brothers. I had forgotten (too much booze) the names of the women other than Meg. The brunette with somewhat saggy, but giant tits was Liz. The buck-naked and extremely tan lass was Pam. Roy introduced the last in line with a laugh. “Meet Mrs. The Senator, I’ll let you guys talk.”
Mrs. TS smiled, removed her oversized sunglasses, and stuck out her hand. “I’m actually Ellie.”
Ellie held the handshake a few seconds longer than was socially acceptable. That was fine with me, as it gave me time to look down from her beautiful sky blue eyes to her deep cleavage. All I could think was, “Don’t drool in there.” She was quite a package. Her natural blonde hair was cut into a bob, right below chin level. As I said, her eyes were blue, almost too blue. She had a scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks and darker freckles in her cleavage. She had an hourglass figure: 36Ds, a tiny waist, and nice, maybe 38-inch hips. No way a guy could fall off that.
Ellie asked if I wanted to get rid of my warm beer, pointing to a low table between her and Pam. A minibar had been assembled: a giant condensation-covered pitcher of margarita mix, an equally large silver ice bucket, two-fifths of Odigo 1530 (one Anejo and one Reposado), a bowl of lime halves, and three stacks of plastic glasses. I chugged the last of my Stella and suggested, “I’ll have what you’re having.”
Ellie rolled on her right elbow and twisted at the waist to access the margarita fixings. I watched as she added ice to two glasses and then poured at least three ounces of tequila into each. Maybe three or four ounces of mix and two lime halves followed. Don’t light a match!
My eyes had drifted from the margarita-making to her ass. Her left cheek was hiked up, accentuating her narrow waist and ample waist. My gaze lingered a nanosecond too long. When I looked up, she was less than a foot away; her blue eyes staring directly into my brown. “I guess you really liked the view” she whispered. I guess I looked a tad dumbfounded, so she pointed down to my board shorts. There was the unmistakable outline of an eight-inch arm and fist hugging the inside of my left thigh.
“Whoops,” I said, hiking my shoulders up and showing the whites of my eyes.
She moved even closer and said, “I take that as a compliment, coming from a man like you.” At the same time, she placed her left hand on my right thigh, first on the top, then shifting it along the inner surface. I could feel the slightest of touch from her raised pinkie on my rod. Then abruptly the touch and her hand were gone.
Ellie shifted gears. “Ladies and of course Del, who wants to make a toast?” This question brought everyone to the edge of their seats, including Ms. Au Naturale. As an aside, she was as brown as a berry (as my Grandma used to say) and looked as fit as a fiddle (as my Grandpa used to say). Sorry for that digression.
Meg raised her margarita. “I don’t claim to be a lady (there was universal head nodding and chuckling), but here’s to good friends and good sex!” Four horny ladies and one profligate raised, then chugged the contents of their glasses.
Ellie blurted out, “Who wants another? Del, please be a good sport and refill us all.” Where was I, Buckingham Palace?
Well, when in Rome, right? I thought the easiest way to serve these ladies (drinks, not cocks) was to just add tequila to the pitcher of mix and walk from one MILF to the next, topping off their glasses. I stood up and had to get my sea legs. There was no “bout adout it”, I was smashed and I had a boner that would not recede. In the fifteen seconds it took to walk around Ellie’s chaise, I ran through my go-to deboner thoughts: baked potatoes, rusty hinges, nuns (no, that sometimes gives me a boner), Edsels, night crawlers and mulch. Nothing was working, screw it.
I decided to go big or go home (drink mixing, not erections). I took the easy way out and just poured the entire fifth of anejo into the pitcher. I was pretty sure this would result in a margarita the likes of which had neither been mixed nor consumed in any of the dives on Duval Street.
I started with Meg. It became clear these horndogs had telepathy, because each one glanced down at my trouser trout and each uttered some suggestive comment.
Meg: “Fill me up.”
Liz: “Don’t spill a drop.”
Pam: “Is that all you’ve got? Give me more.”
Ellie: “I hope you’ve saved the best for last.”
I placed the pitcher back on the table, barely navigating around Ellie’s lounge. I tried to act put together, but ended up plopping into my chaise and passing out.
