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"Ohmygod," Connie whispered, staring.
Then Karen recovered her hand and, reaching down, tugged at Connie's bikini bottom.
"Take this off," she demanded in a low voice, and I released Connie long enough for her to shed her bikini bottom. She was barely upright again before Karen ordered her, "Get on the bed," and Connie knelt on the bed.
Karen let go of her legs and slid them to my waist, and I needed a quick thrust to keep from slipping out of her ass. Meanwhile her hands and quiet instructions guided Connie into position ... with her back to me and her knees straddling Karen's head. In moments Karen was gripping Connie's ass as she lifted her face to her friend's pussy.
"OOOOOOH...MY...GOOOOOOD!!" Connie moaned loudly as Karen's tongue drove into her slit and her nose nudged her swollen clit. Soon Karen's tongue was deep inside her friend, stroking tender flesh and tasting intimate juices.
I made sure my dick was firmly buried in Karen's wonderful ass, then pulled Connie back until her shoulders and head rested against me. My hands were soon kneading her tits while my fingers tugged at her nipples. My glance met Karen's lust-filled eyes looking up from between Connie's thighs. I could tell she was eagerly devouring Connie's pussy. Experimenting, I found I could fuck Karen's ass with short, careful strokes, causing a muffled moan as she redoubled her oral attack.
This remarkable combination lasted only a few minutes before Connie's whole body tensed and she began uttering loud, rhythmic groans as she started to come. Her hips thrust against Karen's mouth and her hands covered mine, crushing her tits against her chest. Then she screamed a high sharp scream, "AAAAAAAAHHHEEEAAHHH!" before seeking my mouth with hers for a deep, desperate kiss ... grunting as each orgasmic spasm struck.
"Uh-UH-UNH-AAAAAUNNH"
Connie's orgasm and the friction of my dick sliding into Karen's ass sent me over the edge and I began thrust uncontrollably, shooting a massive load of hot sperm into her body while simultaneously groaning and fucking Connie's mouth with my tongue.
And finally, Karen was coming!
"Mmmmmph! MMMmmmph! MMMMMMMPHHH!"
Bucking and straining below us, her eyes screwed shut, her screams muffled against Connie's pussy, her hands gripping Connie's hips ... Karen came and came for what seemed like 10 minutes. I could feel her ass milking my dick, squeezing and releasing, squeezing and releasing.
Time passed, we untangled and wound up dead asleep, Connie and Karen wrapped in each other's arms and me spooning Karen. We woke up an hour later, refreshed, to the sounds of children playing in the pool. Connie and Karen kept smiling and stealing glances at each other. Then we crowded into the shower together, dressed and went to join our children in the cool water and warm sunshine.
The End.
The Interview
I was in my junior year in college, majoring in museum studies. Everyone in my class—and undoubtedly every museum studies major in the city—was applying for internships that summer. The New York City—and especially Manhattan—is filled with world-renowned museums, from the Metropolitan Museum of Art to the Museum of Natural History to the Guggenheim to the Whitney to the Cooper-Hewitt to the Museum of the City of New York to the Museum of the American Indian, as well as lesser-known ones such as the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, the Skyscraper Museum, and the Museum of American Finance. And I applied to intern at all of them. But the museum I most wanted to intern at was the Museum of Sex.
I sent in my fledgling resume—really little more than a summary of the classes in museum studies I'd already taken and a couple of irrelevant summer jobs—and what I hoped was a persuasive cover letter, as I'd done with all the other museums on the long list, and at first didn't give it much more thought.
A couple of days later, I got what I assumed was a form email from a woman named Jane Williams, a curator at the museum, acknowledging receipt of my application.
I spent some time on the Internet trying to find out something about her, but her name was too common for me to find her. If she was one of more than one hundred people with that name on LinkedIn in the New York area, she wasn't one of the few LinkedIn members who admitted to working at the Museum of Sex.
But somehow that email—even though I assumed it had been sent to everyone who'd applied to become an intern at the museum—was all it took to make me spending every waking moment having a fantasy about the curator.
My fantasy went something like this:
I get a call. The woman at the other end of the line identifies herself as Jane Williams. She has a polished and professional but friendly voice, and we set up an appointment for an in-person interview a few days later.
At the appointed time, I show up at the Museum's office entrance. A pretty young woman opens the door. When I identify myself and the reason for my being there, she takes me down a narrow hall and has me sit down while she make a phone call. After a few moments, a woman comes down the hall and greets me by name, identifying herself as Jane Williams.
She's not at all what I'd expected. She's on the young side—in her mid-twenties, I'd guess—and she has a pretty face with a cute little upturned nose, but she's awfully heavy—I estimate her at over two hundred pounds at no more than about five feet four. Her low neckline shows a lot of cleavage between her ample breasts, a gold cross nestling between them, and she has a delicate tattoo of a rose toward the top of her right one. Her dress is black and short and tight, and she's wearing black fishnet stockings and black shoes with low heels.
She puts out her right hand for me to shake. Hers is small and delicate, but her handshake is firm and emphatic. "Thank you for coming in. Come to my office," she says, turning and leading me back down the hall. Her bottom is much larger than usually attracts me, but I find myself fascinated by its rolling roundnesses as she walks.
She opens the door to her office—her name is on a plaque to its right.
"What makes you want to intern at the Museum of Sex?" she asks—a little abruptly, I thought, although I'd expected the question eventually. "Your museum combines my two greatest interests," I say, as I'd rehearsed innum
erable times. "As you can see from my resume, I'm majoring in museum studies and I'm going into my senior year. It would be a great opportunity."
"You realize that it's not like interning at the Met or the Modern," she says. "It doesn't have the same cachet. It's not necessarily going to help you get a job after you graduate."
"Like everyone in my class, I've applied to intern at the Met and the Modern and Museum of Natural History and the Whitney and the Jewish Museum and the Museum of New York and the Museum of Holography and pretty much every other museum in the city. I assume that you haven't gotten quite as many applications as all the others."
