Tell Me More (9 page)

Imagine it,
I tell him…

We’ve had a careful lunch served by a pair of deferential, respectful waiters who nevertheless exchanged glances that they thought I didn’t see.
So this is the latest one…
Or maybe they hoped I would see. The food was delicious and sensual, a salad of beets and goat cheese and greens that tasted of spring and sunlight, nuts scattered over all. Steak, rare, that left a smear of bloody juice on the plate. Wine, of course, something pale and expensive and complex.

For dessert, a chocolate mousse served in a martini glass with a saucy curl of dark chocolate peeking over the edge, and coffee served in exquisite, tiny porcelain cups. A plate of tiny sweet strawberries in case anyone needed an extra little nibble.

Willis and Jake were there, observing me, watching my tongue and lips as I ate, and the Chairman, a middle-aged man in a beautiful suit that had the drape of silk and the heft of a fine wool. He was handsome, powerful, his dark hair sprinkled with gray, features chiseled and masculine, with piercing, deep-set brown eyes.

“You, Mr. D.”

“My dear, you flatter me. I’m not nearly so good-looking.”

“So you see, Miss Hutchinson, trust is absolute. You do understand.”

I dabbed at my lips with the fine linen napkin. “Of course.”

“Well, then, how about—shall we say, Wednesday night? We’ll send a limo for you.”

I nodded in agreement. “Thank you for the delicious lunch.”

“My pleasure. But before you go, Miss Hutchinson, there’s one more thing.” He beckoned to one of the waiters, who stepped forward. “A gesture of good faith, if you will.”

I stood. I knew what he wanted. The waiter was quite young, probably a college kid putting himself through school, dark-haired, with small gold-rimmed glasses, a gold ring in one ear. He stepped past me with a word of apology and cleared the table. I took my lipstick from my purse and reapplied it. Jake nodded at me and I removed the jacket, revealing the silk and my hard, excited nipples.

The waiter brushed crumbs from the tablecloth with a small silver-handled brush into a cute little silver dustpan, then stepped aside.

“Pretty, isn’t she?” the Chairman said to the waiter. “Would you like to fuck her?”

He blinked and stared at the Chairman and then at my nipples.

“Go on. Touch them.”

I smiled at him encouragingly. He wore a long white apron and black pants, but a sizable bulge showed in the apron now. His hand drifted across my nipples.

“Continue.” The Chairman beckoned to the other waiter, who brought brandy and glasses for the three men, the spectators, and then a small silver tray with a condom on it. He returned to his station on the opposite side of the room, watching.

I pulled my skirt above my hips, feeling cool air caress my thighs and butt. I leaned against the table, supporting myself on my hands.

“I did mention I was wearing high heels, didn’t I?”

“Oh, God. Go on.”

The table edge pressed into my pussy. I parted my legs, steadying myself.

Behind me the waiter untied his apron; I heard the rustle of linen, followed by the small sound of a button releasing, the hiss of a zipper. His hands grasped my hips. One hand dipped between my thighs and lingered on the wetness, dabbling, preparing me.

His finger slid into me. I watched the faces of the three men around the table, who, despite their languid poses and their glasses of brandy, radiated tension. The Chairman raised one eyebrow; he had detected a change of stance, a shift in my position.

“Is all well, Miss Hutchinson? Will you share with us what Ben is doing?”

“His finger is inside me. Now two. Three.” I moaned a little.

“I assure you his cock is bigger than that. Isn’t it, Ben?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Show us, Ben. Miss Hutchinson, stay where you are, please.”

The waiter stepped back a little and his feet shuffled on the carpet. I loved this, although I couldn’t see it, the display of his erect penis to the others. Across the room the other waiter watched. He shifted and lowered his hand to his crotch, in the unselfconscious way men will when dealing with a troublesome erection. Was it Ben’s display that excited him, or the prospect of the fucking that was to follow?

“Very workmanlike,” the Chairman commented. “Yes, I think that will do. What do you think, gentleman? Uncut, you will notice.”

The tear and snap of a condom and then something hard and slick rubbed against my butt. I caught my breath. My camisole gaped open, revealing my breasts and erect nipples to the men at the table and the waiter opposite. I raised a hand to pinch them into still harder peaks.

Small motions of their shoulders and hands below the tablecloth told me that Jake and Willis were masturbating. The Chairman, however, sat motionless, both hands on the surface of the table.

Ben continued to rub his cock against my butt for a while, occasionally dipping it between my legs. He reached one hand to pinch my nipples as I had done, his gesture bringing the faint scent of a kitchen, the aromas of oil and meat and onion and smoke to my nostrils. His fingers were faintly dusted with black hair.

He pushed inside me and I gasped. I hadn’t appreciated how large he was or how eager. He took his hand from my breast and gripped my hips again, pumping into me. Opposite me the other waiter had pushed his apron aside and unzipped, his cock in his hand, rubbing frantically. Jake and Willis were both red in the face and openly excited now, but I noticed they each had a hand reached across to jerk the other off. I would have liked to watch them do it, but this was not a time for me to watch and enjoy. I was the main attraction.

Willis was the first to succumb, groaning loudly and arching back in his chair. The waiter against the wall came seconds later, catching his semen in his apron.

Ben pumped faster now, slapping against me. He hesitated, poised, gasped, his hands slick on my skin, and shuddered against me.

I ground my pussy against the table. I understood that my orgasm wasn’t the point of this exercise, but that didn’t stop me wanting one.

“Thank you, Ben, Miss Hutchinson,” the Chairman said. Other than a certain brightness around his eyes, he seemed unmoved.

Ben slid out from me and I heard the rustle of clothing and his zip going up again.

The Chairman rolled his chair out from the table, knees spread wide. An impressive bulge showed at his crotch. “If you will, Miss Hutchinson. No, the skirt stays as it is.”

I dropped to my knees and crawled over to him on all fours. My pussy was swollen and I wanted an orgasm badly. Maybe if I squeezed my knees together…

I fumbled with the Chairman’s zipper and slipped my hand inside his pants. I couldn’t resist teasing him a little. Yes, warm fabric—silk, of course—and a large, ridged bulge. I unsnapped the fastening at the waistband of his pants and laid the fabric aside, then delved into his silk boxers. His cock sprang out, powerful and curving, the open slit hinting at the extent of his arousal. A warm, salty scent rose to my nostrils.

I heard Jake and Willis moving around, finding better positions to watch the proceedings.

“Legs apart, Miss Hutchinson,” the Chairman murmured.

Damn. My pussy and butt were exposed for their enjoyment, but not for mine. I bent to lick his cock, a little intimidated by its size, tasting him, tracing the blue veins that decorated its length. I closed my mouth over the plumlike head….

“Dark red, right, Mr. D.?”

“God, yes. Take me in your mouth now. All of me.”

And I did, breathing through my nose, his pubic hairs coarse and fragrant, careful with the task to which I had been entrusted. I cupped his balls with my hand, stroking the sensitive area beyond them, and offered the occasional, delicate scratch.

He didn’t make a sound. One hand moved to my head in a gentle yet commanding caress.

Behind me I heard the wet, rhythmic slap of a palm against a cock. Or maybe more than one, as the Chairman took his pleasure to the delight of the onlookers. And take his pleasure he did, maintaining that silence and self-control, with only the tightening of his calf muscles against my sides and a sudden movement of his hand on my head to exert a little more pressure. That was all. I doubt his expression changed. He sucked in a deep breath and held it, then let the air out as my mouth flooded with his warm semen.

I swallowed and withdrew with a respectful kiss to his flaccid cock. With the utmost courtesy, the Chairman handed me a napkin to wipe my mouth. He took another to pat himself dry, and then fastened his pants.

“Very good. More wine, Miss Hutchinson? Or a glass of water?”

I declined both. What I really wanted to do was come, and I think he knew that.

“Let the poor girl jerk herself off,” Willis said. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Jo?”

“Miss Hutchinson?”

I cleared my throat. “Thank you.”

Ben moved forward to pull out a chair for me. With my skirt still tucked up around my waist I sat and hooked my legs over the arms, revealing my wet and swollen pussy. The room was absolutely silent. The waiter standing against the wall took his cock out again, but a glance from the Chairman made him swallow and flush in embarrassment and quickly tuck himself away.

I licked my finger—not that I needed any more wetness, but I thought it a sexy sort of gesture all the guys would appreciate—and stroked my nipples, knowing the silk would cling to them.

And then I masturbated, rubbing myself hard and fast, while the men watched, for the most part impassive. Jake licked his lips at one point, which made me shake with lust (he knew it; he winked at me) and Willis reached down to adjust his cock then sat, legs apart, his erection pushing through his pants. The Chairman watched with a genial smile, which somehow seemed the sexiest thing in the world.

My orgasm roared through me and I moaned loudly. The Chairman raised his eyebrows, looking mildly amused, while I jerked and thrashed around in the chair, before subsiding, limp and satisfied, my arms and legs hanging.

“A delightful lunch,” the Chairman pronounced. “Thank you, Miss Hutchinson.”

Jake reached a hand to help me to my feet. I straightened my skirt and buttoned my jacket again, and we left the private room of the restaurant, passing a few late lunch parties. I wondered if they had any idea of what had taken place behind the closed doors.

Mr. D. enjoyed my naughty fabrication so much (The Chairman! All those outsize dicks! The waiter presenting a condom on a silver tray! I was quite proud of my inventiveness….) I didn’t have the heart to tell him the next day that the Chairman was in fact a guy a few years older than me with reddish hair called Harry, who was an accountant, and that we met in a sports bar and ate hamburgers and fries.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said, “the rules. Don’t worry about them, Jo. It’s more fun if you find out as you go.” He winked at me. “Safe, discreet, sexy. That’s all you need to know right now. Another beer?”

“IT’S SNOWING!”

I turned the monitor down and tucked the phone under my chin. “Kimberly, at eight thousand feet sometimes it does snow.”

“You can’t bicycle home. We’re coming to pick you up. But not too late. Your intern’s in tonight, right? So you can prerecord and we’ll come get you at ten.”

I glanced at the clock. “Okay. Can you make it ten-thirty?”

There was a pause. “What’s up? You really want to stay later?”

“No. Yes. I mean, thanks. That’s real thoughtful of you. I appreciate it.”

Yes, I appreciated the offer of the ride home, but it meant I wouldn’t talk to Mr. D. I’d also had to delay my first experience with the Rockies Investment Association, since Mother Nature had stopped by and I had cramps and a huge zit on my chin. An early night might be what I really needed.

Snow, the first snow of the year. I went out of the studio to the office area and looked out of a window. It was settling on grass and trees already, falling silent, with small flakes that promised a drop in temperature. I thought with anticipation of my skis and poles, and rushed back to the studio to prepare a full weather report and cue up the “Dance of the Snowflakes” from the
Nutcracker.

Poor Kimberly. She’d never quite accepted that at this altitude sometimes it snowed, and spent every winter in an agony of anxiety about snow tires and investing heavily in cashmere and leather accessories. Her idea of skiing was hanging out at the bar at a ski lodge; I’d tried to get her to cross-country ski with me one time and she was horrified at the possibility of maybe having to go to the bathroom outdoors. I quipped that if there was a bathroom there, it would be okay. She didn’t think it funny.

I programmed three hours of music and announcements into the computer and chatted with my intern for a time. It was after ten-twenty now, and I knew Kimberly would be late, so I settled in to edit sound bites for on-air fundraising. We’d invited some of our longtime listeners, and a few new ones who’d made themselves known to us by calling or emailing with enthusiastic praise, to record their thoughts about what the station meant to them. Some had dried up, tongue-tied and embarrassed, at the microphone; others had chatted with abandon.

Like this one, six minutes of a blow-by-blow description of her morning routine, and how listening to the news started her day (and her husband’s, the two dogs’, the cat’s and her baby’s), which I’d reduce to thirty seconds while keeping her enthusiasm intact. Highlight, snip. Highlight, move. Keep her breath in there so she sounded like a human being.

The phone rang, but it was an internal line. Kimberly and Patrick had arrived. I asked them to give me a few moments to finish my work and then gathered my things together.

Ann, my intern, took over in the studio, and I made my way through the dark building to the entrance. At first I didn’t think Kimberly and Patrick were there because the lights weren’t on, and then I heard a rustle and a soft sigh from the sofa.

I stopped dead, my hand on the light switch, considering a loud throat clear before illuminating them. As my eyes became accustomed to the dim light, a little outside light from the street made soft by the pearly quality of a falling snow, I saw what they were doing and froze.

Yes, they were making out. Kimberly’s blond hair spilled over Patrick’s shoulders, and her gloves and scarf lay on the floor. As I watched, he lifted his head from hers and nibbled under her ear. I heard her make a small sound of pleasure, that same soft sigh I’d heard earlier. His hands moved to her blouse, unbuttoning, her skin gleaming pale in the dim light. They looked like an old black-and-white movie, no color, just monochromatic shades, moving slowly as though underwater. Or maybe that was me, my perception of the scene slowing it down so that I noticed every move, every small noise.

Her head tipped back, eyes closed, and Patrick’s mouth moved across her collarbones. And down. A rustle and the rush of nylon against skin indicated that he’d unfastened her bra. Her hand smoothed across his head and she raised one knee to rub her calf against his.

I caught a glimpse of her breast, full and white, the nipple large and darkened before he lowered his head there.

Oh, jeez, was my first thought. I couldn’t possibly walk in on them now. But I didn’t want to. This was far more erotic than Jake and Cathy’s naked, professional fucking, possibly because I knew them both, my best friend and my number-one mouse killer. And they were unaware of my presence; they weren’t performing or putting on any show; they were pleasing each other (although the thought crossed my mind that maybe they liked fooling around in places where they could get caught).

Patrick moved his arm—I couldn’t see, but I think he’d held her breast while he suckled it—and slid his hand over her thigh and then inside, pushing her skirt up. She wore stockings, the real things with garters—proof, as Kimberly had once told me, that she really liked a guy, because who’d want to end up with strange indentations on their thighs? His hand moved with a steady rhythm in the darkness.

He raised his head to watch her face. Her mouth was open. She had that same distant look we all get when we’re on our way to a really good orgasm and her freed breast moved as she sucked in air. Oh, God. I was watching my best friend have an orgasm, but I couldn’t stop looking or stop myself enjoying it, either. And I was listening, too, because now her breathing accelerated and she gasped a little. At the same time, they barely moved. She seemed frozen, and Patrick—I knew his hand moved, but if I hadn’t known what they were doing I would have thought them a statue.

Patrick murmured something to her. I couldn’t catch his words, but whatever it was sent her over the top. He fastened on to her breast again as she arched up—I felt it in my breast, between my thighs—and then she writhed, moaning in a fairly restrained way that I admired. I was fairly convinced that my orgasms were, to the viewer, an undignified thrashing about.

She subsided and reached a hand down to his, stilling it, then lifted his fingers to her mouth and licked them.

Oh, you naughty girl, Kimberly.

She reached for his zipper.

He put her hand aside, to my disappointment, and said something about the time, then leaned to kiss her on the lips. She nodded and reached behind herself to fasten her bra, while Patrick straightened her skirt (and also reached down to adjust his dick, I couldn’t help noticing).

Kimberly smiled at him as he buttoned her shirt. She reached into her purse and pulled out her cell. I came back to life then as my cell buzzed against my hip and tiptoed back down the corridor. I was pretty sure they hadn’t been aware of my presence and I needed a moment to collect myself, and also give the illusion that I was on the point of leaving the studio.

“I’m just finishing up.” My voice sounded a bit hoarse. “Where are you?”

When I returned to the front, the light was on. Kimberly, talking and applying lipstick at the same time, complained about the weather. She was her normal lively, if angsty, self and I wondered if I’d imagined the erotic scene I’d just witnessed.

“Oh, it’s so pretty!” I exclaimed. “We must have an inch or more out there already.”

“It’ll be a disaster driving into work tomorrow,” Kimberly moaned.

“Where’s your bike, Jo?” Patrick asked. “I’ll drive.”

He must have learned that Kimberly’s idea of driving in the snow was to creep along at about walking pace, straddling two lanes.

Outside it was magical, silent and cold. Our breath puffed out in the air and snowflakes landed on my eyelashes, my lips, as I gazed up at the sky.

Behind me, Kimberly’s agonized monologue on the loathsome weather continued while Patrick loaded my bicycle into the hatchback of Kimberly’s car.

I scraped a handful of snow from the ground, formed it into a snowball and threw it at her.

“Not funny!” She dived into the front seat of the car.

A snowball hit me on the side of my neck. Patrick, his glasses gleaming, grinned at me. “You throw like a girl,” he commented.

“I am a girl.” I grabbed up some more snow and lobbed it at him.

“Let’s go!” Kimberly wailed as though a pack of wolves were about to descend upon us, or we would have to resort to cannibalism to keep body and soul together.

Patrick and I exchanged a glance and returned to the car, shaking snow from our jackets.

Kimberly handed me a tissue. “You are such a mess.”

“It was fun,” I said, mopping at my face.

“Snow is not fun. Is it, Patrick?”

“It is, but it’s not as fun as you,” he said, which sent both of us into a fit of giggles. He drove through the snow with Kimberly grabbing for his arm and her seat belt every time we took a corner, but by the time we arrived at my house she was laughing, too.

“Have you eaten? I can open a bottle of wine,” I said as I hoisted my bicycle out of the car.

I led them into the kitchen and fixed a grilled cheese sandwich for myself. They’d been out to eat.

“I want to see your place, Patrick,” Kimberly said, looking at my wine collection, which was down to only a few bottles; Hugh was the one who bought the wine. I bought peanut butter. She plucked out a bottle and frowned. “I guess this will do.”

“Shall I check the traps?” Patrick asked me.

“Gross. She has you doing that? Ask her for a reduction in rent.”

“Oh, I think we live in a mouse-free zone now. Sure, come and see my place.” He took the bottle and glasses and led the way upstairs and through the dividing door into his apartment.

“Where are the candles I gave you?” Kimberly asked, shedding cashmere garments onto his desk.

“Sorry, I’m not really a candle sort of guy.” But he opened a cabinet and found candles and lit them, while Kimberly flitted around the room organizing things. It drove me mad when she did that, pushing a picture frame an inch or so to one side, rearranging other items—not that Patrick had many items for her to rearrange—yet her efforts mysteriously improved the room.

She folded a screen back, revealing a bed, and straightened the cover. “You need some throw pillows. I’ll get you some. Don’t you think so, Jo?”

“Don’t bully him,” I said. I opened the bottle of wine. “Guys don’t like throw pillows. They sit on them and burst the filling out or throw them on the floor. Right, Patrick?”

“Absolutely.” Patrick pushed one of the glasses away, shaking his head. “Not for me, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t metabolize alcohol well. It’s the Irish genes.” He opened his miniscule refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water.

“This is a really cute place!” Kimberly cried. “Very European. You’ve used the space so well. Did Jo help you pull it together?”

“No, her, uh, boyfriend helped.”

“Hugh? But he’d moved out by then.”

“No, the other one. Jason.”

She gave me a questioning frown. I knew that look. She’d be all over me the next time she got me alone, cross-examining me for lurid details.

“Come sit down, darlin’,” she cooed to both of us and we sat on the bed. I realized then that Kimberly had had a fair amount of wine at dinner.

Patrick smiled brightly. “Two lovely women in my bed. Have I died and gone to heaven?”

“
On
your bed,” I said. “It’s a major difference.”

“A man can dream.” He raised his bottle of water in a salute.

Kimberly giggled. “Have you ever had a threesome?”

“Not yet,” Patrick said. “But ask me again in about fifteen minutes.”

“Jo?”

I shook my head.

Kimberly eased a cowboy boot off and put her stockinged foot on Patrick’s thigh. “I’ve never even kissed a girl,” she said. “Not since junior high.”

“Tell me more,” Patrick said.

“If I were to kiss a girl now, it’d be Jo. She’s so cute.” She looked at me, blinking. “You have dirt on your face from your games in the snow. Honey…” She beckoned to me.

I leaned forward, wondering what she wanted, and she kissed me in a clumsy, drunken sort of way.

“Steady, cowgirl,” I said, pushing her away.

She collapsed onto Patrick’s lap. “You kiss her now.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to.” I really hoped Kimberly wouldn’t remember this in the morning.

Patrick took my chin in his hand and give me a firm, brotherly kiss on the cheek. He grinned. “Time to take your kit off, girls.”

“I’m on my period,” I said, matching his facetiousness.

He rolled his eyes. “We can put a towel down.”

“Oh, don’t be gross,” Kimberly said. A second later she let out a snore.

Patrick and I looked at each other. She was fast asleep on the bed, her skirt riding up, revealing the top of one stocking.

He straightened her skirt and removed her other boot.

I took the throw from the foot of the bed and folded it over her. She’d be furious when she woke in the morning and found she’d neglected her usual rigorous cleansing-and-toning routine.

I unfastened her earrings and laid them on the small bedside table. “Don’t let her drive home if she wakes up.”

“She’s out for the night.” He stood looking down at Kimberly, an odd expression on his face, tenderness and regret mixed.

“You okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Just disappointed that I won’t be hearing more about junior high.”

“Me, too.” I hesitated. “You have dirt on your face, too.”

“Do I?” He scrubbed at his face.

I stepped forward and rubbed his cheek with my thumb.

“Not tonight, Josephine,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to say that. Is it Josephine?”

“Yeah. I hated it for years.”

“Jo suits you better.”

There was a pause. I still had my hand on his face and I stepped back, feeling like a fool. “Good night, then.”

I grabbed the bottle and glasses and fled back to my side of the house, unnerved by that moment of contact and the intensity of his gaze. My thumb still held the warmth of his cheekbone.

What the hell was I doing?

“Hey, wake up.”

I could smell coffee. I opened an eye to see Kimberly sitting on my bed, a cup of coffee in each hand and a bundle of clothes beneath her arms. Mascara was smeared beneath her eyes and she wore a plaid dressing gown that had to belong to Patrick.