I lay still and still felt the presence, but neither further, nor closer. I slowly uncurled, hoping that the slowness of my movements would somehow make my attempted escape go unnoticed. My breasts brushed the carpet as I got my arms below me, arching my back as my elbows stretched. I straightened my legs and was about to bend one under me to stand up, when I felt a breath, right by my ear.

It smelt of cherry tobacco, the one Ira used to smoke. He used to roll it up in thin, wonky rollups, with some tobacco strings always hanging out of them, looking funny. With his head bent forward, he would strike the lighter and wrap his palm around the whole smoking project, so the wind would not extinguish the rollup. He used to do that even when there was no wind. A habit. As he was inhaling, every time he would look at me from beneath his furrowed eyebrow, the eyebrow would straighten and he would smile.

Proust Phenomenon!

Ira was well aware of this, the ability of smells to cue highly vivid memories – cherry tobacco could remind me of him and him alone.

Fuck it!

I rolled around to face my ghost. As soon as I did, the lightbulb went dead, leaving me in complete darkness, surrounded by the sound of rain and wind.

My nostrils caught another smell. Oil, coconut…

…The men returned with a contraption known as a punishing bench. They put my playfully resisting self on it in a doggy position, my belly placed over the waist bar to bend me in two. My forearms and knees were positioned onto leather padding and my wrists and ankles locked into steel cuffs. To ensure that I did not move they fastened my elbows and knees to the bench. 

Once they were finished, they lubricated me again with coconut oil and began what I can only describe as a ‘punishment session’. They fucked me hard in my mouth and pussy, swapping every few minutes, spanking me occasionally. I could see their muscles move underneath their oiled skin; my body was full of them. I moaned and sweated with makeup running down from underneath my mask, my hair getting wet and messy on my shoulders.

They stopped for a minute and then one of them positioned himself on top of the bench, with the other standing on the floor. In perfect harmony they DPed me. I felt a vibrator on my clit and as the cocks moved faster and faster; I was cumming. They both came inside me…

My hand slid in between my legs to find my very alert clit. It only needed a soft brush with my finger to feel what I was feeling the day I met Ira. It was my first threesome, we fucked for a long time, with our voyeur watching.

Muscles tensed, I wanted to experience that long orgasm again when all of a sudden I smelled sweet, floral perfume...

…The girls had prepared for the occasion – oysters and wine, beautifully arranged candles, dimmed lights, permeating scent of sweet perfume. This evening was important to them. And in turn it was important to me.

I let Ira and Juliet talk for a while. When I saw them kiss, I knew the game had commenced. I stroked Tiffany’s arm, letting her know that I needed to do what I needed to do. And what I needed to do was to direct my own puppet show.

I separated the lovers mid-kiss and led them into the candle-lit bedroom.

They watched me slowly undress to my black lacy underwear and make myself comfortable in an armchair. Tiffany sat herself on a tall stool to my right, her hand on my shoulder, searching for comfort for this unprecedented performance. I stroked her hand, then looked Ira and Juliet in the eye and very softly began:

‘Now. Do not talk. Just listen to the sound of my voice.

Juliet, lie down on your back and close your eyes.’ I let her do it.

‘Ira, I want you to hover over Juliet and let her feel your warm breath on her skin.

Good.

On her neck.

Just like that.

Lower.

On the outside of her breasts. Around her nipples. Let her feel your breath on her most sensitive skin…

Lower…

Now belly button.

Lower…

Smell her. I’m sure she smells divine.’

Juliet was breathing heavily with Ira’s every breath, arching her back and moaning quietly.

‘Ira, now touch her neck very lightly with your index finger.

Run it down.

In between her breasts. Circle her nipples… Don’t touch them.

Run your finger down her belly.

Down… Down…

Touch her clit softly, very very softly.

Is she wet?

Good.

Now, very slowly slide your finger in’…

Ahhh! This was a beautiful memory. I remembered the shapes of Ira and Juliet vividly, him on top of her, Tiffany’s lips on mine, her tongue sliding into my pussy, as if it was happening now. I kept rubbing myself.

A guttural moan escaped. My body trembled, muscles spasmed, breathing became quick and shallow, like panting. I raised my hips, spread my legs, my finger now moving furiously.

Almost, almost!

Suddenly, a warm hand touched the inner part of my thigh, by the groin. A warm finger travelled across my skin to replace mine and continued massaging me. The other hand touched my other thigh, his hips slid in between mine and a cock slid inside. Now his hands hugged my hips and pulled them up, then higher. It was Ira’s favourite move - the higher the hips went, the more his cock stroked my G-spot.

My arms stretched by my side on the floor, fingers slithered towards his legs finding their way in the darkness, touched his muscly thighs, grazed them with my fingernails. He moved in and out his whole length, the tip of his cock pulsating with blood beneath the skin, the cock rim erect, brushing my spot. He would pull himself out almost fully, I would feel it and squeeze my vagina at the last moment not to lose him – this was a sign for him to get back in. Again and again, a game that pleased us both.

My eyes were opening wide and closing shut, an involuntary reaction to pleasure, in the darkness they served no purpose. He tensed – I knew this was the moment when he would move quicker and quicker, never losing the length. Then – as used to be the case – with one palm he pressed on my stomach, right on my bladder, softly but confidently, pushing my G into his moving cock, pushing my bladder, all the way down.

I came. Oh my how I came! I shuddered and writhed, my orgasms have always been violent, a wild animal tossing around when captured.

He held me tight, his fingers digging into my back to still keep me up. It was not over yet – he kept pressing on my stomach and still trembling with my orgasm I squirted my gooey liquid on his belly and mine. He rubbed it all over me, as much as he could reach, over my breasts, reaching my neck, around my belly button. His hands lowered my hips on the floor, I started crying.

He caressed my thigs, up and down, from knee to groin and back. He slowed down a little, with that his hand got colder. Then slower yet – even colder. Then his hand stopped on my knee, now completely cold, almost frozen. I sat up, grabbed his hand in my palms – to warm him up, to keep him here. His hand became lighter, as if evaporating. I squeezed tighter but it became even more intangible. I squeezed more and now my palms closed against each other, with nothing in between them. My eyes darted without purpose in complete darkness. There was no more presence, I was alone, I felt it with my every pore. I was safe, calm, restored. A sense one gets after meditation or a joyous feeling a glass of wine brings on – worries brushed away, sadness gone – complete clarity and peace.

I touched my stomach – it was wet, my crotch was still pulsating with a recent surge of energy - it was not a dream.

I curled on the carpet. The room smelled of rain, the wind had now calmed down. There were too many thoughts in my head to think them all. I listened to my breaths, one, two, three, four, five… thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine…

_____________

I woke up with a throw over me and a smell of French toast. Quinn loved French toast.

When showering me, he noticed finger marks on my back, five red bruises, unmistakeable signs of sex grip. At first he tried to soap them off, then he realised what they were. He did not ask anything - we were both free and uninhibited, we kept a part of our lives separate and intertwined the other parts, it was a good balance.

We walked barefoot in the sun, read books and had sex out in the open, we saw no people for a week, our voyeurs were birds and rabbits. It was a bliss.

On a Saturday, Quinn came back, having mowed the lawn.

“The storm is brewing,” he said. “I need to close the windows upstairs.”

He went. I looked out – the willow tree was starting to swing, dark clouds were forming, curling ever lower and lower to the ground.

I closed the window, but kept it unlatched. Wind squeezed in through cracks carrying in a smell of grass.

Then of willow tree.

Flower polen.

Coconut.

Quinn came back and sat next to me, ran his fingers up and down my thigh. “Sex?” He waited a bit, sniffing, his attention shifting. “Can you smell coconut?”

I leaned down and kissed his already half-hard cock through his jeans. “Sex. Can we wait until the wind picks up? Someone may join.”

He smiled. He always loved threesomes.