A wedding invitation arrived in the mail like a letter from The Fates. An old pal from our high school was getting married a few hundred miles away near Cape Cod. I ran it by Maura. We were newly engaged at the time.
She had just showered. She was applying a thick peach-scented cream to her rosy breasts, her lightly freckled forearms, her taut white stomach. Her long dark hair was wet, matted, clinging to her breast and shoulders. When I showed her the invitation, she shrugged. “You make the executive decision,” she said, and wiggling her fingers bye-bye, she closed the door on my face.
As things had been terribly flat between she and I, I decided we needed the wedding trip, the excuse to get away.
Before leaving I surprised her with baby pearl earrings and silk black stockings (“Pagan Midnight Sheers: Made in England”), and I booked us a room with an ocean view at a highly recommended inn called Poseidon’s.
For much of the long ride, the karma was smooth. We talked geography, the beautiful coastline, lobster rolls, Newport, Rhode Island, Cape Cod, the Kennedy’s, JFK, Marilyn Monroe. Maura even sang a karaoke version of “Happy Birthday Mister President,” that turned me on.
As we got closer to Massachusetts, talk turned to my friend who was to be married, which led to conversation about our former high school heroes and heroines and high school cliques and grudges. As we rattled off names, I wondered, the way you sometimes wonder if you left the stove on, whether Sean Raverty, a former football teammate of the groom’s, a cad, a genuine prick, would be at this wedding. Sean fucking Raverty.
The name made my blood run cold and as we checked in, I told myself, “He’s going to be there.”
I heard his name in my head as we checked in at Poseidon’s and I heard it as I dressed myself in my suit and watched Maura slip out of her casual clothes into her black bra.
I was even thinking Sean Raverty as I listened to Maura hum that AC/DC tune “Back in Black,” which we’d heard twice on the drive up, Maura mocking its head-banging bass line as she pulled those Pagan Midnight Sheers over her legs, wiggling her toes through the black fabric, teasingly.
That irrational, cold-blooded dread of Sean Raverty even ran through me as I helped her fasten the stockings to her garter belt straps. To shake off my nonsensical anxiety, I playfully knelt down and massaged Maura’s legs, kissed each of her stockinged knees, licked her cool white stomach, and gazed up at her as she gazed down at me. I raked my fingers through her pubic hair, admiring her pink sex framed by the black lace. She tapped my shoulder and then she tapped an invisible watch, “We’ll be late,” she said.
Obedient as a schoolboy, I sat and watched her finish her make-up, waving to me in the mirror as she applied her mascara, her green eyes dancing.
Then, like a sick mantra, that name started recurred in my head all over again: Sean Raverty.
I tried to persuade myself that whether a guy I hadn’t seen in ten years was or wasn’t going to be at this wedding was a non-issue. I mean, what the hell was bothering me, anyway? Maura had never dated the guy in high school. In fact, she hardly knew him. Yet while she and I made more small talk about high school, the very fact that I dared not even mention Raverty’s name to Maura seemed to me disturbing. Disturbing beyond words.
Deep down, I knew why I kept mum. I kept his name to myself because I recalled the time, years back, when she’d talked about Raverty to me, on the phone, at length, going on in enthusiastic detail about how she’d run into him at a local bar with (count ‘em) not one but two women at his side. I recalled how Maura had sounded uncharacteristically star struck as she described Raverty’s female friends.
My obsession got so bad that I couldn’t pay attention during the wedding mass. Instead I scanned the congregation looking for a sign of Raverty. Though I didn’t see him in any of the church pews or even see him as the crowd dispersed to join the newlywed’s greeting line, I felt his smug presence almost as if he were stalking me.
When we arrived at the reception hall, I rushed over to the hospitality desk and saw our table assignment on a small white card: Thom Gautier & Guest, Table Seven. I scanned the other alphabetically arranged cards and, as if I’d made it happen by my own obsession, I read the card: Sean Raverty & Guest, Table Seven.
Sean Raverty was every bit the confident glib smartass I remembered. A decade later, he still seemed to be that taller, stronger version of my self. Thicker, reddish blond hair. An athlete’s posture. A more brightly blue-eyed assuredness. Darker eyebrows. Even his navy blue suit was better tailored than mine, and as he shook hands I admired how gracefully his jacket fit round his wide shoulders.
I looked for a blush of recognition as Maura shook Raverty’s hand but she seemed nonplussed.
I told myself, “Chill, bro.”
But I couldn’t chill.
Raverty introduced his girlfriend as “Abigail.” She was a redhead with an upscale, lighthearted London accent. “Lived there till I was ten,” Abigail said. “The rest of my accent you can blame on the city of Bah-stun. Or blame it on Sean.” I must have visibly cringed as his British gal pal flirtatiously repeated Sean’s name in her exaggerated Boston accent. She play punched him and he grabbed her by the wrist and waved a scolding finger. When I turned around, I saw Maura smile at the couple’s erotic antics.
For the first two hours of the reception, we engaged in was just the usual wedding guest chitchat. Tedious, but harmless, schmoozing.
Then something entered the airspace around our table and my cold-blooded sensation about Raverty returned. A waiter came to our table with a tray of bacon-wrapped bay scallops and, after Maura waved the waiter off, Raverty protested and firmly insisted she try one. “These are not run of the mill, New York, tasteless-scallops,” he said. “These are New England’s treasures. Try one, you’ll like it.” Then the bastard had the cojones to rise from his seat and reach across the table and hold out a fork-speared scallop. “You can’t drive hundreds of miles and not try this,” he said.
I was so stunned that I remember looking down at my shoelaces. Maura so hated seafood that I assumed she was going to remain in her seat and turn it down. But she seemed curious as she studied the scallop at the end of his fork.
I was beyond humiliated by this prick’s brazen stunt yet it woke my cock, tingled my sex to life with an odd sense of its own uselessness in the moment – so much so my cock bulged right out of my briefs and pressed against my wool slacks. Then to my aroused shock—and to the surprise of the other couples at our table—Maura rose from her seat, leaned forward, her pearl necklace drooping over her water glass, her skirt rising, the backside of her black stockinged thighs winking at me, and she took Raverty’s scallop fully into her mouth.
Raverty returned the empty fork to his plate. His Abigail applauded lightly and smiled her approval. “Did my bully steer you properly?” she asked Maura.
“Hmmm,” Maura said, chewing and thoughtfully swallowing. “On a scale from one to ten, I’d give it a nine.” Then she winked at Abigail, and I put my hand on my crotch. The other couples at the table, amused by Raverty’s lead, helped themselves to the waiter’s tray of treats, muttering sheepishly the truly tasty New England scallops. As the tedious reception wore on, I drank too much too fast, and there were a few times during which I lost track of why we were there. I tried to forget about Raverty; yet I couldn’t get away from IT it. I discreetly but frequently stared over at him, studying meaningless details, such as the yellow pattern of conches and anchors on his blue tie, his teasing-older-brother-like habit of calling Abigail “Red,” or how he drummed the fingers of his right hand on the stem of his glass between sips from his glass of Remy Martin.
During the meal, Maura talked so often about the spectacular harbor view that it seemed that Raverty felt compelled to feed her local trivia about recent floodwaters and lobster traps, his brother’s lucrative tuna fleet, the pleasures of scuba diving. With each nugget she grew increasingly more engaged, and she looked spellbound as Raverty described in detail how Caribbean grouper fish often swim right up to divers and kiss their masks. I peeked under the table and saw Maura’s legs go slack as he went on about scuba diving. Her knees were touching as she rocked back and forth in spasms of girlish awkwardness, and she was showering Raverty with so many follow-up questions that I was torn between wanting to tell Raverty to please shut the fuck up and to continue imagining what his storytelling was doing to her, almost invisibly, down here, under the table, between her lovely legs. I interrupted their banter and made a flat-footed quip about how she had converted to seafood eating and deep sea diving in the space of just one hour. Maura flipped me her middle finger and asked the waiter whether there were any more bay scallops.
As if bored beyond hope by me, Maura went to the window to get a better view of the water after desert. Raverty drifted over as well. Though I didn’t want to leave her side, I had to excuse myself to go to the “boy’s room.” When I came back, Maura and Raverty were side by side at the window, just the two of them, laughing so loudly that even a few couples at other tables were pointing at them. Maura was doubled over, wiping tears from her eyes as she returned to her seat, her face beet red. She paused from the laughter just long enough to reach down and fix her right heel.
As we sat back down, through a fake smirk, I asked her what was so funny. She just stared across the table at Raverty, who feigned perplexity, causing Maura to sputter into another round of red-faced laughter. She caught her breath, shrugged, crossed her gorgeous legs, raised her wineglass, and toasted no one in particular.
Not long after we’d paid our respects to the bride and groom, and engaged in some perfunctory, happy conversation with their family and with some former classmates, Maura disappeared.
And so, I saw, did Raverty.
I surveyed the dance floor and saw that there weren’t there. My legs felt leaden. Disgusted, I got up and shoved my chair violently.
“Is anything wrong?” Abigail asked me. Her condescending British accent rubbed me the wrong way.
“This here was a massive mistake,” I said, “This so-called wedding, it’s just a goddamned high school reunion.”
I turned away and jostled through guests on the dance floor, craning my neck to find her. Or them.
I came to the hall’s series of small baroque terraces that faced the west side of the harbor, and as I passed by each set of curtained glass doors I strained to see who was out there. All of them were vacant until I came to the last terrace. There, through a gap between the thick curtains, I saw Maura’s black-clad calves and her black feet encased in those strappy black high heels.
Even through the reflected light on the glass doors, I could make out the dark freckle on Maura’s left calf. Beside her feet I saw the hem of navy blue suit pants and men’s black loafers with tassels.
Raverty.
The terrace swan’s-head doorknobs were locked.
I felt so faint and dizzy that I was sure others could see me trying to keep my balance. I knocked repeatedly on the glass door. No matter how hard I knocked those two sets of legs stayed stock-still. A few older guys smoking cigars watched curiously as I jimmied the doorknobs loudly and knocked over and over on the thick glass. Then I just stared down pathetically at those two motionless sets of legs outside.
My fiancée’s feet. Raverty’s feet.
By now the DJ was inviting the bride to dance with her father as the music segued into Bette Midler’s “The Wind Beneath My Wings,” and it seemed like I was on the wrong end of a macabre joke.
I let go of the doorknobs and stepped back and stared one last time through the glass at Maura’s motionless feet next to Raverty’s loafers. The opening bars of “The Wind Beneath My Wings” almost drowned out the jealous backbeat that throbbed in my temples.
As I snaked my way back through the hoard of dancers, I admitted to myself what the locked terrace doors had already tried to tell me – my fiancée was out there, with Raverty, and something special was happening, and they wanted to be left alone.
My hands were shaking as I sat down at our table.
Zombie-like, I applauded mechanically as the bride’s dance with her father concluded. Then I studied the creases in Maura’s empty chair as if I were trying to decipher some awful hieroglyphics.
Then I began picturing Maura and Raverty on that terrace.
I could see their heads profiled against the harbor.
I could see Maura pull back from their first kiss and run an index finger along his lower lip.
I could even see her crouch down on that terrace, safely hidden by the curtains.
I could see her unfasten the belt off Raverty’s trousers and slowly, discreetly unzip him, her fingers delicately pulling out his cock from under what I imagined were pale blue boxers.
I could see him slip a hand between her black lace bra and her soft white breasts, tweaking her nipples and grinning at how turned on she was in such a public place.
I could see her dig into his boxers and cup her white hands around his member, letting it swell to firmness in her grip. I could see her red fingernails against his shaft. Hear their whispers.
Enraged by these images I hollered across the table to Abigail, “where the fuck is your boyfriend?” and my outburst brought an embarrassed silence at our side of the dance floor. I apologized.
Almost pityingly, Abigail came around to my side of the table. She crouched. Her pink skirt rode so far up her supple thighs that I could see the long trim at the top of her pink stockings. Her blue eyes were startlingly pale this close up. Her orange-scented perfume was oddly comforting. “All that I can reckon,” she said, “is that my beau told me he wanted to check out the sails on the harbor with your beau. I gave them my blessings. I don’t get in the path of budding friendship. It’s not my style. So,” she said, standing up and patting down the sides of her skirt, “my best guess is my beau’s showing your beau all she asked to see.”
Then she stood up, blew me a kiss and went back to her seat.
What felt like hours later, I saw Raverty tip a busboy on his way back to our table. Then he sat down and kissed Abigail on the head and she welcomed him back as if he were a solider from war.
Maura arrived back soon after he did. She looked stunning as she settled back into her seat. Her skirt seemed shorter, her legs longer, her eyes greener. She barely looked at me.
At one point she sniffed the back of her left hand and smiled across at Raverty and Abigail. I sat nicely for a while, making small talk about the DJ’s choice of songs, the bride’s bouquet, even the goddamned chandeliers. Then, disgusted by own passivity, I insisted to Maura that she and I talk, now. Outside.
In the parking lot, as departing guests paraded past us and headed into their cars, Maura and I argued. Or rather, I argued while she listened, swiping her high-heeled feet against the gravel. Seething as I was, I found myself transfixed by the casual sweep of her leg.
She claimed that “all that had gone on,” out on the terrace with Raverty was “above board.”
I gritted my teeth and thought about all the news reports I’d ever read about boyfriends and husbands exploding in homicidal rage. Yet for all this anger I felt like kissing her. Not the way you kiss a girlfriend, tenderly, but the way you worship a queen, gratefully. In fact, the more I tried to express outrage, the more a part of me wanted to get down on my knees right there on the hard gravel, tuck my head under her black skirt, peel back her thong, and go down on her in full public view.
Still, I demanded to know what the hell was going on with her and Raverty. She kept saying “it was above board,” and I wanted to smack her for that.
After a while, she just covered her ears and asked me if I was done.
I said I would never be done till I’d found out what happened out there on that terrace for an hour.
“He was teaching me about boats,” she said. “The rigging, the sails. The boats. Out at the yacht club. How’s that?” She waited to see my reaction and then she put her hand over her mouth and a shit-eating grin appeared through the gaps in her fingers.
“Fucking sailboats?” I asked “You talked about fucking yachts for an hour?”
“There was a lot to see,” she said. “Lots and lots of boats.”
Afraid I would end up in a nuclear brawl with Raverty, and not able to stomach going back inside the reception hall, I went back alone to our room at The Poseidon.
As I watched the local TV news with drunken indifference, I considered driving home alone, but I could barely walk a straight line. In frustration, I smashed each of the four drinking glasses in the porcelain sink.
When I finally fell asleep I dreamed so vividly I wondered afterwards if someone had spiked my drinks.
I dreamed that Maura and Abigail were in a penthouse apartment with massive windows and palm plants overlooking a sunny beach. They had swapped the dresses they’d worn to the wedding. Maura was in pink, Abigail was in black.
Fully clothed, Abigail was crouched on her high heels, going down on Raverty, who, naked and cut like a stud in some soft-core porn film, was seated on a bar stool.
Maura held Abigail’s long red hair while she moved up and down, down and up. Raverty’s expression was so calm as she sucked him off that I marveled at his stamina. I could hear the slapping, suckling noises of the women’s mouths taking turns on his dick, a sound so liquid it was like being on a wooden dock listening to waves slap against the pilings below.
Then I woke to the noise of car doors slamming, the roar of vans leaving the reception hall up the street.
When I feel asleep again I dreamed that an unshaven Raverty, with tousled hair, was on the edge of a bed holding his engorged cock in his right hand. Maura and Abigail were naked, and Raverty put his hands over his eyes and pointed randomly. His finger landed on Maura.
Maura grinned. Abigail held out her hand to help Maura lower herself, slowly, precisely, smilingly, down onto Raverty’s hard cock.
Maura’s freckled backside faced me as they made love. She moved up and down on him, and held on by putting her hands behind Raverty’s neck. At one point she arched herself so far back that, upside down, the ends of her long dark hair touched the carpeted floor. Upside down like that, she gazed back at me, her face as red as it had been earlier, when she’d had that laughing fit at the wedding. As she and Raverty continued to move together, she mouthed with declarative pleasure, “oh---my---fucking---Lord.”
Then she hoisted herself back up towards Raverty’s chest. She kissed his chin, then licked his nose and bit his upper lip. I saw her tongue tip touching his tongue tip, and I heard her voice still gasping with pleasure, a pleasure so mixed with delighted giggling that I could hear her moans, still, like an alarm clock when I woke up, alone, in the quiet of a room, spinning in my champagne wooziness, my hard cock bobbing helplessly alone against the cold sheet.
At three a.m., I woke to keys jangling, whispers, footsteps: Maura had come into our room. I pretended to be asleep. Light from the open door shined on her bare legs as she tiptoed in her little black dress, her heels and stockings dangled from her hand.
I watched her hurry out of her black dress and her zip open her duffel bag and quickly slip into jeans. Someone outside the door called out, “Hop to!” and I heard Maura curse and whisper, “Christ, it’s too dark, I can’t find my shirt!”
After some hurried conversation near the open door, a woman’s hand reached in and tossed a T-shirt at her. It blanketed her face. She giggled and pulled it off her face, and slipped it on quickly. I could see it was a man’s oversized V-neck.
Then Maura slipped her heels back on like some weekend Cinderella and tiptoed out, closing the door behind her so secretively that I wanted to shout out “I saw you, whore!”
The jealous throbbing returned to my temples, but I was too weary to get up and follow her.
After an hour of lying there, my cock was so engorged with confusion and frustration that I sprang from bed and rummaged around our luggage for Maura’s peach-scented lotion.
Lathering myself up, I pictured Maura in some room not far from here, sharing beers with Abigail and Raverty.
I could see her playfully slip her engagement ring onto Raverty’s pinky finger to see if it fit. I could see it fitting and the prick grinning, Abigail kneeling down in front of Raverty, applauding the ring, applauding and then drawing Sean’s cock into her hand and licking her lover slowly, her tongue dramatically and victoriously dragging its wet route along his shaft, as if to celebrate their conversion of Maura to the wonder that is Sean Raverty.
When she came back to our room around nine in the morning, she was wearing that oversized V-neck undershirt. Just seeing it on her stung me between the legs and reminded me just how un-dream-like, how ghoulishly raw and real this whole turn of events had become.
We packed our luggage without talking and I checked to see that her engagement ring was still on her finger. Remembering my fantasy of that ring slipping onto Raverty’s pinky, I must have blushed, because Maura asked me whether I’d been sunburned. “Or are you just red from a hangover?” I told her I didn’t feel like talking anytime soon. Then I threw my duffel bag on my shoulder and told her to go fuck herself.
We didn’t say a word for the first three hours of the drive home. At times, I found myself wanting to pull onto a shoulder and have at it with her.
When we came to a rest area she went in and fetched snacks, and I followed her closely down the aisle. The tee shirt billowed around her like a summer dress, spilling over the pockets of her jeans, making her look girlishly sexy. I found myself turned on to be so close to her. She seemed regal and somehow innocent to me now, as if whatever she’d done all night with Abigail and Raverty had turned back her body clock and elevated her, gentrified her.
As she paid for the snacks, she caught me staring. She asked, with genuine concern, almost affection, if I was “okay.”
I assured her I was.
She asked, “Did you enjoy the wedding?”
I said, overall, it had been a decent wedding. I asked her if she had enjoyed “it.”
She gazed down briefly at her feet, wiggled her toes and then smiled softly, nodding “Yes,” almost demurely at first, and then insistently, like little girls tend to do when you ask them whether Santa had been good to them at Christmas.
Back home, we passed two uneasy weeks of sleeping in separate beds before I finally summoned the balls to ask Maura to tell me unequivocally what the hell had gone on at that wedding.
At first, she gave her usual non-reply that it had been, “nothing that should ever concern me,” but then, she closed her laptop and looked at me. “Telling you would hurt you and hurt me. Hurt like hell,” she said. “I’m not proud of it. I mean, I’m not going to prostate myself about it, but it hurts to think about it.” Judging from the calmness of her voice, its lack of even a slight tone of guilt, I felt aroused. I answered that hurt or no hurt, in the end, I needed to know. “To move past it.”
In the long silence that ensued, we stared blankly at each other. I half-jokingly suggested she could, “use Vaseline on me to ease the procedure.”
She said that was a truly bizarre image to reach for.
I agreed. We laughed, I realized, for the first time in ages.
I told her, “hold that thought,” and I fetched a jar of Vaseline from the bathroom cabinet, placing it on the kitchen table like a cat displaying a captured bird to its bewildered owner. Maura chuckled awkwardly and read the directions out loud. “Rinse wound thoroughly, apply a palm full to the area...Consult a doctor if area does not heal or worsens after three days of application.”
I mentioned that the jar of Vaseline looked odd on the table, “perverse, really.”
“Distracting?” she asked.
“Kind of,” I said.
“Good-distracting?”
“I guess you could say perverse is probably appropriate for the situation we’re in,” I said.
I admitted to her that I felt I was about to get screwed over, “without even a reach around.”
To my surprise she didn’t disagree. She said, “Could be.”
A mad, heady rush of vulnerability swept over me.
“Then maybe I could be given a reach around this time,” I said.
“Maybe,” she said.
We took our discussion into our bedroom.
From under our bed, I dug up a dildo, flesh colored, complete with veins and an all-too-realistic fleshy crown, a toy she and I had bought so long ago I couldn’t even recall from where.
“If we’re going to have this conversation,” I said. “We might as well make this a bedtime story. And if I was screwed over as badly as I think I was during that wedding fiasco,” I said, “I might as well be literally fucked by you while hearing about it, don’t you think?”
She agreed. “Wholeheartedly.”
We climbed on to the bed and I handed her the jar of Vaseline and dropped the dildo by her side. I stripped off my pants and lay face down. She pointed out that it might hurt me so much that I would wriggle. She leapt off the bed and fetched a pair of black stockings “Remember these, babies? My ‘Pagan Midnight Sheers’?”
I lay prone with my arms out to form a Y as she bound my wrists to the headboard with the stockings.
“Now put on his fucking white tee shirt,” I said.
I felt her self-conscious silence behind me.
“Go ahead,” I said. “If we’re going to do it, let’s do it.”
Then I felt her jump off the bed to fetch Raverty’s shirt, and the fact that she had kept it made my cock spring to life. I felt her very close behind me, the fabric of that blousy tee shirt brushing against the backs of my legs and even over my ass. As she re-read the Vaseline directions off the label, her voice sounded incredibly feminine. So animated. Assured.
Then her cold fingers lubricated my balls. I closed my eyes and felt her greased fingers parting my ass cheeks, her fingertips deftly coating my snug hole with the thick Vaseline. The medicinal odor wafted into my nostrils as she stuck her fingers inside me. I felt like a toddler in a doctor’s office getting his temperature checked.
My erection was so large by now that I had to lift myself up slightly off the mattress just to relieve the pressure. As I did so, the wrist bindings cramped my shoulders. Fighting off the awful strain in my biceps, I decided it best to lay still.
“Once upon a time,” Maura said, with two fingers snug in the cleft of my ass, “a boy named Sean asked a girl named Maura to have an after dinner drink on a terrace.”
She withdrew her fingers and replaced them with the oily tip of the dildo.
“And seeing as her boyfriend was already three sheets to the wind from champagne, she said yes to this boy named Sean.”
I felt the dildo entering me fully, like a small, rounded fist. I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth. The dildo felt like a giant suppository, only tighter and smoother.
“Sean and I got along so well we kissed out on that terrace. Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss.” She lowered her face and made puckering noises near my ear while shoving the dildo more firmly into my ass. It was so tight in there it felt like I had to defecate, like hot water was leaking out of me. Or into me. The sensation made my blood boil and I could smell everything around me—the Vaseline, my own armpits, Maura’s perfume, the laundered bed sheets. My hardened cock felt like it was a thing separate from me, down there like a dildo sandwiched between my stomach and the bed. I almost came with the excitement of the simultaneous pressure from the front and behind.
I caught my breath and asked, “Did you....and he....you know what?”
She giggled. “Did we make love out on that terrace? With all those people so close by? No, silly. We just kissed. Like on a first date.” She lowered herself over my left shoulder again and made that puckering kissing sound. My balls swelled, filled, tingled, and by now the dildo was so far inside me that the burning sensation traveled up my backside and into my neck, and I felt like Raverty was in the room watching this spectacle.
“At one point,” Maura said, “some nosy-body did try to come by that terrace. Some mystery person was a-knockin’ on heaven’s door.” She laughed and turned the dildo round, opening me wider and causing me to grunt and bite into the bed sheet. I must have sounded like a wounded dog. Or worse. A stricken pig.
“So then,” Maura said, “after you and I argued in the parking lot and you stormed off on me, I figured you’d probably locked me out, so I went back to Sean and Abigail’s room. And we drank single malt Scotch. And we listened to jazz on their Bose. John Coltrane. Do you know John Coltrane? It was so, hmm, swoony.” Her hand pressed firmly into my lower back. “And as we drank more Scotch and Sean was admiring his Abigail, he announced he wanted to go down on Abigail and I. Do you know the word cunnilingus? He said “cunnilingus” fast five times and dared us to do it without stuttering. Of course we couldn’t. But he could. Then he said ‘I’m going to go like a bee, from one fair flower to another’.”
As she confessed, my arms were strained so much from the pull of the wrist bindings that I was sure my shoulder had separated. Yet I felt light, easy, freed, like I was soaring. The hot skin along my backside was releasing waves of rippling tension as she shoved that dildo in and out, burrowing it deeper and then withdrawing it entirely, and then driving it ever deeper. The movement seemed to be inspired by the light, plinking cadence of Maura’s own voice.
“Well, Abigail and I had quite a bit of whiskey, so we didn’t put up much of a fight. We stripped down to our stockings for him. Or should I say, for cunnilingus.” She moved the dildo round and round in me and my cock leaked and almost surged its load into the hard, dry mattress. I felt sure Raverty himself was also behind me, chuckling, or over me, or even on me, in me, plunging his swollen cock into my ass.
The dancing tug in Maura’s voice made my head swirl. I felt flush, feminine, filled. She tapped my left fist and dragged her finger to make sure the knotted stocking was holding fast. “I had to sit and watch for fifteen minutes while ole Seanie got his Abigail off. Which was quite the tease, believe you me. He even traced that talented tongue of his along her rim.” She giggled, pulled the dildo out of me, and stuck a single finger into my ass as she repeated, “rim.” Then she yanked at my hair, shoving the dildo into me yet again. “Soon enough that busy bee Sean got round to me. His tongue was very precise. Precise and firm. It was if he knew by instinct where my sweet spot was. He knew my clit better than I knew my clit. My God.”
I could almost picture the dildo protruding out of my ass as I lay there, cramped by my own hard-on, listening. I caught my breath and asked Maura, “Did the bee make you come? “
“Are you asking me if Sean’s attentions give me an orgasm? Ahhhhhh, hellllllooo? I was so weak-kneed after I came that I literally rolled off the side of their bed. But I wasn’t done with this big boy. I wanted him in me. So I crawled back to the bed, pulled him down on me, into the missionary. In full view of his dear Abigail, mind you. In fact, she sat by my side as he and I went at it. Au natural. Which did scare me at first, I must say, I mean, I know this guy is a player, a swordsman.”
She pushed the dildo in again and drew it out just as quickly, and the cool air seeped into me, like cold breathe against my balls. “Who knows where that tool of his has been, right? But after a while I didn’t worry, really. He’s really so clean. Meticulous, in fact.”
As that plastic cock burrowed deeper, I felt it wasn’t any longer just in me but it was me, and as I moved my hips, my cock nested into the bunching of our sheets and the tender tickling made me erupt, blindingly, into the mattress.
As I opened my eyes and came to, Maura was still talking.
That fake cock was still in me. The raw pressure of it made me feel like I had to shit. But I didn’t want it to be taken out of me.
“God, did Sean and I kiss,” she said. “Lip-lock-city. I had another orgasm. And after I had mine he pulled out of me and just spurted. And I mean spurted. A Trevi fountain. All over my tummy.”
Seeing that I was exhausted, Maura playfully tousled my hair and untied my wrists from the bindings.
When I rolled over to face her she said, “Oh, look at you.” She pointed at me. “I was so lost in reliving my transgressions that I didn’t even hear you hit the jackpot.”
“Then by all means, finish your story,” I said.
“Well, I did. Sean was prolific. That’s why Abigail and I had to shower and why I had to come back to our room at the inn and change. Later, over more drinks, when things were wrapping up, I hugged them both and told them they were a sweet couple. Pervs, but pervs with golden hearts. They liked that. I even made a crude parting joke to Abigail when she and I were showering. I said you’d better keep the lion king in his cage. He’s got so many bullets in him you’ll end up carrying triplets and quintuplets.”
I thanked her for coming clean.
“So to speak,” she said, tapping the Vaseline jar and waving the greasy dildo.
It occurred to me that she’d never told me what she’d been laughing about with Raverty, earlier, at the reception. I insisted she tell me.
“Oh we’d been talking about that poor kid during sophomore year. Billy Remo. Remember? ‘Boy’s Room Remo’? Who got caught by the nuns masturbating in the boy’s room our sophomore year?” Apropos of nothing she pointed between my legs where my cock had long since gone limp and shriveled. “At the reception as he and I were talking about that Remo story, as if on cue, you came over and announced to me and Sean that you had to use the ‘boy’s room.’ So, just as you got out of earshot, Raverty called out “Go, Boy’s Room Rico!”
“He really is a fucking wiseass,” I said. Then I broke a smile and my cock jerked to life.
Maura said, “We were laughing a bit too much, he and I. Was a bit rude, especially at a wedding. Guess it wasn’t that funny. Maybe you had to be there.”
“Well,” I said, kissing the back of her hand, “At least now, finally, I can say that I was.”
Originally published December 2008