Baumgartner Hot Shorts (21 page)

Janie whimpered as he pulled out, feeling the first hot blast of his cum against her still slightly gaping asshole, and his orgasm was like the trigger for a row of dominos falling. Everywhere around her men were coming, spraying her sides, her back, but mostly her ass. They’d all been crowded around, watching her get fucked, and now they exploded like firecrackers.

She rubbed the cowboy’s cock over her swollen lips, smiling up at him and he smiled back at her, his gaze soft and full of wonder.

“Can I lick your pussy, ma’am?” he asked so politely she almost laughed.

“I’m covered in cum,” she apologized, and it was true. Even though they weren’t supposed to come on her pussy, she could feel the cum of she didn’t even know how many men sliding down the crack of her ass through her swollen pussy lips.

“I don’t care.” He leaned back on the mattress—they were the only two on it now—up on his elbows. “Come here.”

She glanced back at Josh and he smiled, nodding, so she went to the cowboy, letting him pull her up, making her straddle his face. Her pussy quivered with anticipation, so very wet, but the cowboy went straight to work, licking and sucking hungrily. Josh came around to watch and Janie put her arms around his neck, letting him hold her up as she rocked her mound against the cowboy’s fluttering tongue.

“Oh God,” she whispered into her husband’s neck, feeling his strong arms around her. “He’s going to make me come.”

“Do it,” Josh whispered, stroking her hair, holding her close, closer. “Come for me. “

Janie cried out and trembled in his arms, feeling the cowboy wrap his arms around her hips, pulling her pussy deeper against his face. Josh kissed her deeply, as if he could draw every last bit of her climax through her mouth as the cowboy was suckling from her cunt. She collapsed in Josh’s arms, spent, and then the world tilted sideways, shifting, and she was drifting on a cloud.

“Who?” Josh whispered, feeling her starting to go.

“The cowboy,” she murmured. “And the Australian. And the guy who came first... the one...”

She was going, going, gone.

Hands held her, instructions were called out. The mattress was flipped, and Janie felt warm cloths washing her body, tender caresses, soft kisses. She opened her eyes to a sea of faces and closed them again, so tired she could barely move. She didn’t know how long it was before she opened them again, but she was fully dressed and Josh was beside her on the mattress, the only light coming from the moon shining in through the high warehouse windows.

“Happy tenth anniversary,” he whispered, kissing her temple.

“I love you.” Janie felt tears stinging her eyes. “You’re so good to me.”

“I love you, too. I think that was the best dirty show yet.” He nuzzled her neck, her breasts. “Same time next year?”

“Ten years,” she marveled, reaching for and finding his hand in the darkness, squeezing it. “Think we’ll still be doing this at twenty? I don’t know any other man who would do this for his wife.”

“Forever,” he assured her. “I’d give you anything you wanted—anything. You know that.”

Janie leaned over and kissed her husband in the silvery light of the moon and knew he knew it, too—there was no other man in the world she had ever wanted to be with more than him. There was no man who mattered more, no man who could compare, no man who could touch her, fill her so completely, as Josh did.

And that’s just what she told him without words, every day and every year on their anniversary. She proved it to him time and again. And that was all that had ever mattered, and all that ever would.

I’m not going to let it bother me.
Libby watched a multitude of skeleton trees pass by, lining the small rolls of the hills on the side of the interstate. She smiled to herself when Henry slipped his hand into hers, not saying anything, his other hand still on the steering wheel. He sensed her distraction, she knew he must. Henry was always attuned to her feelings, however minute the change. She squeezed his hand, bringing it up to her mouth and kissing his knuckles. He squeezed back, stilling singing along under his breath to the song on the radio.

Libby looked back out at the snow falling, the soft blur of the white stuff outside the passenger window like static, her mind drifting like the weather. She kept telling herself she shouldn’t let it bother her, but her visit with Henry’s parents had thrown her. For the first time since she’d started dating Henry, she found herself questioning things. Things a girl shouldn’t ever question about her man. That was the thing.

“Are you cold?” Henry, squeezing her hand.

“No, baby.” Had she shivered? She smiled over at him. Was it enough reassurance? “I’m okay.”

Lies. She didn’t lie to Henry, ever. Why was she lying now? She wasn’t that girl—the one who said, “I’m fine!” when someone asked her what was wrong. So why was she doing it now?

Because you’ve been lied to.

Had Henry meant to deceive her? She didn’t think so. It was his nature, part of who he was, to keep things close. The man had spent his entire high school career and the first year of college keeping a secret so big it almost scared her. How did you manage to get through an educational environment without knowing how to read?

But Henry had done it. He’d minimized his severe dyslexia, had skated through—literally, on a hockey scholarship—to secure a spot on the University of Michigan hockey team. It was only when he hit college that the secret had finally come out and Henry had to fully deal with it. He’d come such a long way. Libby smiled at the memory of his freshman—and her sophomore—year. The year than changed her life.

And here it was, another new year, one she’d been looking forward to. They’d spent New Year’s with Henry’s parents, because they’d gone to hers for Christmas. She’d always liked Carrie and Steve Baumgartner—the latter who insisted she call him “Doc,” because everyone else did. And Libby did. She had also fallen into calling Carrie by the moniker “Mrs. B” because so many others did as well. The Baumgartners came up to Henry’s hockey games on occasion, and seemed to have no problem (like her own parents) when she and Henry moved in together. They were so open and fun. More like friends, really, than parents.

And now Libby knew why.

She hadn’t thought twice about Gretchen being there. She’d been Henry’s nanny for years when he was young, and had been a family friend, present at gatherings, for as long as she’d known him. Gretchen was sweet—blonde, bubbly, fun, with a little bit of a sarcastic sense of humor. Libby liked her.

But apparently not quite as much as Henry’s parents liked her.

The image of Henry’s mother kissing Gretchen in the kitchen was a memory that just wouldn’t go. It was like it had been burned into her retinas. She saw it every time she closed eyes. Her mind wouldn’t let it die. In fact, it was her stupid brain that kept going over and over it, like a movie playing on repeat.

Libby had padded downstairs, half-asleep, for coffee, only to find the women in an intense lip lock. This wasn’t just a friendly little peck. I mean, the Baumgartners were affectionate, friendly people. They kissed and hugged all the time. But this wasn’t that. Their bodies had been pressed hard against one another, heads slanted, mouths frantic, and Libby had glimpsed the pink flash of tongue. It was like a private little game of who could turn on whom faster.

Carrie had Gretchen pinned, one hand pressed flat against the wall, her other buried between Gretchen’s thighs. Libby had gone undetected for just moments, but in that brief amount of time, she’d seen a few of Gretchen’s curly blonde hairs at the top of her cleft, where Carrie’s fingers disappeared between her pussy lips, her robe hanging open.

She’d seen Doc, who was the one to catch her staring, who heard her gasp, leaning against the pantry door, a few steps away, observing the whole scene. She’d seen Doc’s hand rubbing over his boxers, his cock clearly hard. And the women knew he was there. In fact, when Doc had flagged their attention to stop them, their eyes had gone straight to him, panicked at being discovered. So the women knew they were being watched—they just didn’t know Libby was part of the audience.

Not that Libby was a prude. Far from it. I mean, she’d once gone undercover as a prostitute to a frat party. That whole thing had even been caught on tape. So she wasn’t a prude. She didn’t turn her nose up at dirty jokes, she didn’t balk at locker room banter. She really didn’t get offended that easily.

But this was Henry’s mom. And his dad. These were people she hoped, someday, to call Mom and Dad, if Henry ever decided to propose. Libby was careful to watch what she said and did around her possible future in-laws, wanting to leave them with a good impression at all times. They didn’t need to know everything. Like that whole prostitute thing. I mean, it wasn’t like she was a real prostitute or anything, but it was the perception that mattered. She cared what they thought about her.

But clearly she wasn’t the only one hiding things.

She remembered Mrs. B turning, dazed, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, to see Libby standing in the doorway. Oh God, that moment. She’d been so embarrassed, but too shocked to move. Realization dawned in Mrs. B’s eyes as she quickly withdrew her fingers from Gretchen’s folds, now wet with her juices.

Gretchen had fled with just a quick, “Excuse me” as she squeezed by Libby. Mrs. B had tightened her own robe, turning to look at Libby, who stood, even in her own memory, frozen like a deer in headlights, and asked her to join her in Doc’s office. They sat on the small leather sofa, the cold cushions helping bring Libby around from the shock as she faced Mrs. B, waiting for her to speak.

Even now, she felt her face and chest grow hot at the memory. She’d experienced her own brief moment of shame, knowing her desperate need for coffee had been spurred only by a visit from this woman’s son sneaking into her room the night before to quietly do things to Libby that Mrs. B should never hear about.

Then Mrs. B had explained. She wasn’t unkind. Mrs. B was pretty matter of fact about most things, and she was about this too, now that they’d been found out. Apparently, the Baumgartners were polyamorous. Mrs. B was bisexual, and their ex-nanny, Gretchen, had been the Baumgartners’ lover for years before she’d moved to New York. Now, the younger woman occasionally came back to their bed—holidays, vacations, or whenever she was in town. Their door was always open, according to Mrs. B.

When the older woman had asked Libby if she had any questions, it had been hard to speak.
Why didn’t Henry tell me?
That was the first question that sprang to mind, but she couldn’t ask Mrs. B that. Instead, she’d asked the next question that came to mind, which was
how did this happen, exactly?
How did a couple decide to open their relationship, their marriage, to other people? But then she’d regretted the question, because Mrs. B was more than willing to share how they’d mutually come to this point in their marriage.

In great detail.

And the more she talked, the sicker Libby felt.

It wasn’t at the idea of being with another woman, or even being in a threesome, that repelled her. In fact, if she had to tell the full truth, it kind of excited her. The thing that bothered her was the thought of sharing her husband. If Henry brought up the idea of sharing—of bringing another woman into their relationship—like Doc had with Mrs. B, what would she say? She couldn’t imagine sharing him. She loved him too much. Maybe that was selfish, but she wanted her man all to herself.

She wanted
Henry
all to herself.

The life Mrs. B described didn’t bother her. For someone else. And while the woman’s intimate history lesson pushed into the realm of
too much information
, she’d listened, nodding without blinking, until her red, sleep-deprived eyes started to burn. Mrs. B apologized, confessing they’d been careless with company in the house, and Libby had managed to get out,
“Don’t worry about it,”
before she said she had a headache and needed to lay down.

It wasn’t Mrs. B and Doc she was worried about. They could make a Gretchen sandwich all they wanted, as far as she was concerned. It was Henry that bothered her. Henry, who hadn’t told her about his parents’ “arrangement.” Henry, who had lied to her. But why?

“Whatcha thinkin’?” Henry slid his hand up her arm, trailing his fingers over her collarbone.

She glanced over at him, but didn’t say a word.

“Oh.” He grimaced. “Well stop thinking about it.”

“There are some things you just can’t unsee.” Libby made a face.
Or unsay. Or unthink.

Henry had been in his room when she went back upstairs that morning, still sleeping, but he’d come awake quickly when she sat on the edge of the bed and told him what she saw. Libby had seen the look of embarrassment cross his face. And she’d accepted his explanation readily enough. He hadn’t told her at first because he was afraid she’d think it was “too weird.” Then, as time went on, he confessed, he really didn’t know how to bring it up.

“Can’t you let it go?” Henry sighed, glancing back at the road. The snow was coming down heavier. “It’s just who they are. They’re adults, yeah? I mean, it’s their choice. I get that seeing it was… uh… really uncool.”

Libby snorted at that, picking at the hem of her skirt.

“And they shouldn’t have been, you know, doing it in the kitchen.” Henry cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. “But don’t let it bother you so much. They’re still just, you know, people. And people have sex. Even parents. I mean, haven’t we done some crazy things?”

“Yeah.” Libby shrugged, knowing exactly what he was talking about. “But, aside from the hot tub thing at the frat house, it was just you and me. And not… on the kitchen counter with my kids sleeping upstairs.”

“Their kids are in college, Libs,” he reminded her with a laugh. “I think they assume we know about sex. And are likely having it. At least, they hope we are. I mean, I told you, my mom said you could sleep in my room, but you—”

“I care about what she thinks about me!” Libby protested, cutting him off. She didn’t want them thinking she was a slut, really. That’s what it came down to. “What they both think.”

“They think you’re pretty awesome.” He grinned over at her. “But my mom did ask if our sex life was okay.”

“She what?” Libby blinked at him in surprise.

“Well, you wouldn’t sleep in the same room with me, so she thought… maybe… we were having issue.” Henry shrugged. “I told her we were fine.”

“Oh, for pete’s sake.” Libby crossed her arms over her chest. “I can’t win.”

“I told you before, they’ve always been pretty open with us about sex.”

“Well, yeah, but…” She frowned out the window. “But I didn’t know you meant
that
open!”

“If it had been the other way around, and my mom had walked in on us—”

“Oh, my God, stop torturing me.” Libby covered her face with her hands, just at the thought.

“I’m just saying.” Henry laughed. “If she’d seen us trying out some position from the Kama Sutra, she probably would have given us some pointers before she left.”

“Henry, be serious.” Libby dropped her hands to her lap, frowning over at him in the dark. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

“No.” His answer came easily, casually. “But I’m used to it. I can see how it might bother you. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t tell you.”

That was the thing that bothered her the most. He hadn’t told her. He claimed it was because he was afraid of her reaction, but was that really it? She didn’t know, and she was honestly afraid to ask. She was afraid of more lies.

“Are you thinking about the Magic Mountain?” Henry teased. “You are, aren’t you?”

“I am now.” She couldn’t help the smile that crept over her face.

“Way better than Disney, amiright?” He snorted a laugh, poking her thigh with his finger, and she laughed, too.

“Stop.” She pushed his hand away, but she was still smiling, remembering him sneaking into her bedroom the night before.

The room had been dark, just the sliver of a quarter moon peeking through the curtain he opened. Libby refused to turn on the lamp, too afraid someone might see the light under the door and knock. But she’d welcomed him with open arms, his skin glistening silver in the moonlight as they kissed and rolled together on the little twin bed.

“What number do you want?” Libby had whispered in his ear, licking the salt off his skin.

“Seventy-two.” Henry’s teeth had nipped at her throat, making her shiver as she assumed the position to which the number referred.

The Kama Sutra—the book they’d met over, a chance meeting, a complete accident.

Henry had transposed the call numbers and the Kama Sutra had been the book Libby, who worked at the university library, had pulled off the shelf for him. They’d shared a laugh, and that’s when it all began.