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I'd seen Richard nude, and recently, but it had been a long time since I'd seen him stretched nude on a bed, on his back, with the long length of his body spilled out in front of me. I made him spread his legs so I could lie down between them, rest my head against the muscled swell of his thigh, and gaze up the length of him. It was a form of teasing myself, almost. So close to his groin, but not touching. But it wasn't that I just wanted to look, it was the whole package. And it wasn't just that he was lovely to look at, it was that after I'd looked at the groin, only partially erect, and still impressive, the flat plain of his stomach with its perfect dimple of belly button, the swell of his chest with his ni**les like dark brown punctuation to all that permanently tanned muscle; the swell of his shoulders, and finally his face. His face gazing down at me. The pure brown of his eyes like chocolate, the look in them already a little unfocused, when all I'd done was lay my cheek against his thigh and breathed out along his testicles. A feather of a touch, and already his face was showing the effect, as were other parts of his body.
It wasn't just the body, it was Richard looking down at me. The weight of him in his eyes. Him staring down the line of his own body, while I lay between his thighs. I used to think that only death would take someone away from me. But I had learned that so many lesser things can steal someone away, just as completely, just as forever. They live, they breathe, but you never get to touch them, you never see them nude, you never wake to their smile, the smell of their skin on your sheets. There are things so much less dramatic than death that are just as permanent. If I never got to be here like this with Richard again, I wanted it to last. I wanted to take my time.
Where was Jean-Claude? Sitting in the far corner of the bed opposite us. He was nude, but sitting with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up so that he was covered, for the most part, even if you looked directly at him. He looked like a great pale cat curled on the pillows. Once I would have said he looked utterly relaxed, but I knew him too well now. I saw the way he held his shoulders, the tension in one leg. He was holding himself in check, being oh, so careful.
I settled my cheek against Richard's thigh, the way a cat will scent mark you, rubbing back and forth. Just that, nothing more, but it made him writhe. His legs tensing around me, so that his legs flexed on either side of my body. The feel of even that much made me close my eyes and rest my cheek between his legs, so that my face was cradled, oh, so gently against the soft warmth of his testicles. I nestled my mouth against that silky skin. The tiny stiff hairs tickled along my face as I licked that soft, moveable skin. More hair to tickle along my lips. I preferred smoother skin, a little less fuzzy. But of course, I could have that by simply moving up.
I went up on my knees and licked along the front of his shaft, licked it like it was a big piece of candy, and I didn't want it to melt. Licked it back and forth, up and down, just on the front of the shaft, until he cried out, and his hands convulsed on the red sheets.
"Anita, please, no more teasing."
I raised up so I was kneeling between his legs. "Teasing, that's not teasing, that's foreplay."
He swallowed, and it looked like it was an effort, or maybe his throat was dry. "Then less foreplay, at least for me. I don't need it."
I looked down at him, the eagerness in his eyes, his face, his whole body. I could feel what he wanted, feel it almost like he was yelling it in my head. I looked at Jean-Claude. "Some men like a lot of foreplay."
Jean-Claude gave that Gallic shrug. "But it is not me that you are pleasing now."
"I thought you said we had to all three be touching for this to work?"
"I thought I would give you and Richard a chance to reacquaint yourselves before I joined you."
I climbed over Richard's thigh, so I could kneel beside his hip. "Sometime during all this sex, the boundaries between us will come crashing down. If we aren't all three touching when it happens, we may miss our window to bind ourselves closer."
"Perhaps," Jean-Claude said, "what do you propose?"
"Come hold Richard's hand."
"Anita," Richard began.
I wrapped my hand around the base of him, and found that he wasn't quite as hard as he had been a moment before. The thought of Jean-Claude joining us did not do it for him. I was sorry that it bothered him, but I hadn't crawled into this bed for just sex. It was an all-or-nothing deal. Sex and more metaphysical muscle, not just sex.
I squeezed him, one quick pulse, and it stole his words, made his breath shudder from between his lips. "Richard's going to need something to hold on to soon, and there's no headboard."
Richard found his voice. "That was oversharing," and he sounded a little angry.
"You know you like to hold on to something solid while I do this."
He gave me sullen eyes. It was not a look I wanted to see today, not from him. "Hold his hand, Richard, that's all I'm asking right now. Just hold his hand, or let him hold yours. Is that so much to ask?"
I turned so that I was facing away from him, but facing directly another part of his anatomy, which also had a head. I kept my hand on the base of him and slid my mouth over him. He wasn't completely hard yet, and I fought to take as much of him in as I could before he stiffened. It was easier a little softer, less hard to swallow past a certain point. Even soft, there came that moment where my body said, no, we're choking, that nothing this big should be coming down this far in one piece. It was as if I was swallowing him down, but because he was still attached and so big, it was more like I walked my throat over him, up him. I'd found that if I didn't struggle, that I could breathe with this much down my throat. I could breathe, if I didn't struggle. I could fight my way down the long, thick shaft of him, if I relaxed while I fought for it. It was a struggle to get all the way down, but at the same time, the trick was not to fight. Only I could make o**l s*x into a zen moment.
When my lip felt the solid touch of the front of his body, then, and only then, did I let myself begin to slide back up. It was always so much easier going up than coming down. I came up off of him, breathless, but pleased. I'd only recently been able to do that with Micah, after some very embarrassing failed attempts. Like in throwing up embarrassing. It's one of the reasons you should never try this stuff with people unless you love them. People who love you don't point and laugh.
I didn't give him time to catch his breath, only for me to catch mine. I slid my mouth back over him, swallowed him down, until the back of my throat convulsed around the end of him, and I could feel my throat close around the end of him, so deep, so terribly deep. I slid back up the long, thick, shaft of him, then forced myself down, down, until I met his body with my lips, and there was nowhere else to go, no more of him to take inside me. Then it wasn't that I tried to squeeze him in my mouth, but that my throat convulsed on its own, tightening down around him, my body trying to get rid of something so big, so impossible to swallow. I swallowed my own saliva, so I didn't choke on it. Only when I knew I couldn't take anymore, that one more time shoving him so deep in my throat would hurt, did I let myself stop swallowing. I let the wetness of my own mouth trail behind my lips, slide down the thickness of him, trail in thick, wet, lines down the shaft of him, until he was as wet from my mouth as he would have been between my legs.
Richard's voice, "God, Anita, God."
I raised my mouth off of him, my own saliva trailing in thick lines from my mouth to his body. I raised up and turned carefully, slowly, so he'd get the full visual.
He was staring down his body at me, his eyes too wide, face almost frantic. "Anita," and then, he saw me, and the visual threw his head back, spasmed his hands out, searching for something to hold on to. He'd already thrown off every pillow near him. Richard's hands searching for a headboard that wasn't there, searching for something to hold on to. His hand hit Jean-Claude's hand with a sharp smack of flesh on flesh.
Richard stopped his frantic flailing, looked at the other man, who had been so quiet, so still, pressed against the wall and the top of the bed. They had a moment when they were meeting each other's eyes. I don't know what Richard would have said, or done, because I rolled my hands up and over his groin, used the thick liquid to smooth over him, to glide over the head of him. It closed his eyes, and bowed his spine.
I turned, so that I was facing them. I wanted to watch their faces. I wrapped my hand around him, about halfway down, then bent my face back over him and slid him into my mouth, until I came to my hand. It was easier to take him in, faster, harder. With all of him it had been a fight, and no matter how good it felt having him in my mouth, down my throat, I was still fighting my body to keep him down, to breathe, to swallow, so that saliva didn't build up and make me choke. There was so much to concentrate on that I didn't have time to enjoy it as much as I wanted to. With only about half of him to work with, it was just fun. It wasn't just the feel of him, so ripe and hard in my mouth, but the skin was so soft, softer than any other skin on the body. It was like rolling muscled silk on my tongue, pounding it inside my mouth.
