got my middle finger all the way up her butt and she can come when I wiggle it just right. Can you do that, hon? Oh, I'm getting so damn hot, Denise. Tell me when you've got to go…”
I was drinking straight shots of scotch form the bottle. Not the way I usually like to drink, but it was all they offered. Joe was rubbing my clit about then. I was lying on my back listening to them talk, and I was getting very much in the mood for just about anything. Yes, I meant anything. These kind of things were not really to my interest. I never had thought about them before. Yet with the drinks, the dim lights, the two warm bodies, the excited way they talked, it was getting to me.
“You think you could make me come that way?” I turned over to Martha and asked her, my passion building suddenly. “I… I've never had a woman put her finger up there before.”
“Yeah… yeah, baby,” it was Joe who spoke up immediately, helping me to get on my arms and knees, “Come on, Martha. I'll get the vaseline…”
“No, wait,” she told him. “Get back… just watch, honey. Let me do it. Tell me if it hurts, hon.”
I felt Martha's long fingers pull my cheeks aside, and then the liquid wetness of her tongue bathe and penetrate my anal regions. One hand then went beneath and began to agitate my vulva until I was highly lubricated. Her tongue probed deeply.
“See how this feels, hon,” she said softly.
Her finger slid from front to back and the penetration began. The only unpleasant part in all of it was that first passage. The rest was clearly a sensual, sexual feeling. She moved her finger in and completely and I felt my breathing pick up. From the corner of my eye, I could see Joe perched at the edge of the bed watching as he muttered the most explicit obscenities and began to talk about things he had done in the most vivid detail.
I could not reach orgasm that way. I did try, but it was impossible. I was definitely stimulated, and Joe explained that with practice I could probably have anal climaxes as readily as I did vaginal ones. So we ended that particular act by his lying under me and giving me oral contact at my clitoris, while I went down on him, and Martha used her tongue and fingers on my behind while masturbating herself.
Although they had little furniture, Martha and Joe did have a movie projector and a whole cedar chest full of sex films. They set it up and we watched the movies all night long while we continued to relieve each other. I, think Martha was pretty much of a Lesbian, as her only interest was in going down on me, front and rear, and having me go down on her, which I did without finding it too distasteful.
After breakfast the next morning, she received her other wish too. I found the idea of what she did to me in the bathroom disgusting, yet I will have to admit that the psychological and physical sensations were interesting. It gave me a sense of superiority to an even greater degree than Cindy provided during our occasional meetings. And if there was one thing I needed, it was to feel superior, or at least to have some tangible evidence that I was not an inferior person.
The thing that spoiled what could have been just a way-out fling with a try at some new sex gimmicks, was the conversation that took place as we were lying on the bed later that morning. Martha was just lazily loving me while Joe looked on. It was a quietly satisfying kind of thing with nothing frantic and hurried.
Martha would suck my nipple a while and finger me. I would play with Joe's penis. We would all three huddle together and kiss and feel. This kind of thing often happened in threesomes or foursomes after an exhausting night of sex. We were stimulated, but there nothing immediate and urgent.
“You're lucky to have a good looking daughter, baby,” Joe started out, and I almost froze because I knew what was coming. “I bet you play around with her titties a lot and kiss 'em when she's home, don'tcha?”
“I'm not involved at all with my daughter,” I told him brusquely.
“Aw… come on, baby,” he leered ghoulishly, rubbing his penis against my buttock. “You got a sweet little gal like that you can see naked and play around with… don't tell me a Lessie like you don't like to muff that young stuff once in a while…”
“You're a filthy bastard!” I shouted at him, yet I hedged just enough so as not to break off completely and dissolve our acquaintanceship right on the spot. “Just leave my daughter out of this, all right?”
“Jeez… fourteen years old,” he kept on, rubbing against me faster, “Jeez! Baby, you must feel her every…”
That's enough, dammit!” Martha took over for me, jumping up from the bed and grabbing me by the arm, “Come on, honey, we'll go downstairs and dress.”
Martha could tell that I was both mystified and upset, so she attempted to explain things to me as we dressed. I wished she hadn't, because her words went something like this:
“You've got to forgive Joe, honey. If you only knew his background, it's a wonder he's able to get by as well as he does. His mother seduced him when he was about 13 and waited for him in bed naked every day when he came from school. He still says she's the best piece he ever had. And me? Well, I guess we really are two birds of a feather… only I try to act more decent. My mother was a whore and a Lesbian, Denise… and a drunk. When she got drunk, she used to kiss me all over, and…”
I tried to forget about Joe and Martha the rest of the year and concentrate on my more normal friends. I did see them at a couple of parties and we swung a little there. I think Martha had managed to tone him down some. One time he did nothing but have intercourse with me and mention nothing more unusual than, “Damn, baby, you're as tight as that St. Bernard I use to get over in Germany.” For Joe that was pretty straight stuff.
The school year seemed to just whizz by me with all the activity of swinging and part-time whoring sandwiched in between the duties of my job. I tried to separate the two lives completely, but I noticed that more and more I began to look upon some of my students, both male and female, as potential sex objects. I carried on a few mild flirtations with some of the bigger senior boys and fancied that at least one of my quite talented girl students was interested in me as something more than a teacher.
Nothing developed, as I was determined to keep my two lives separate and distinct. And suddenly, it was June. School was out. The week of finalizing plans for the next school year was over. It was time for Kathy, 15 now, to spend another three months with her mother.
Chapter Seven
It was the very day before Kathy arrived that Bob called again. He wanted to return from out of nowhere and pick up exactly where things had left off.
“I think the only thing you can do,” he tried to influence me with that cold and indisputable logic of his, “is face up to this. I want to confront Kathy with it and prove to you that she is a lying little wench.”
“No,” I said coldly, flatly, angered also that he had called me collect from California, and angry at myself for having accepted the call.
“Denise, you must be reasonable,” he continued. “You owe it to yourself, and you certainly owe it to me after I spent a whole summer trying to help you. Well… perhaps I am being a little selfish and evasive. The truth is, Denise, that I just got back from the Far East. I've missed you. I've thought about you more than I should. I want to see you again… to love you…”
I quietly hung up the phone. It was the only thing I could do. If I had listened, I would have given in. If I had talked back or tried to argue, he would know that he could keep me in conversation. And if he did that, he probably knew that I would eventually agree to what he wanted.
And then I thought about tomorrow. I could hang up the phone easily enough, but what would I do if he came knocking on the door tomorrow or the next day… or next week? Kathy would be arriving the very next morning at 9:30, and I was determined not to let Bob intrude on our lives this summer.
Quickly, I looked through my telephone pad and found Mai's number. Mai was my first husband, and Kathy, of course, lived with him and his wife. I was so intent on what I was doing, it never occurred to me to be nervous or hesitant about calling Mai, although I had not talked to him in years. His wife answered the phone and I immediately told her, “This is Denise Bryant. I'd like to speak to Kathy's father, please.”
I tried not to sound too desperate. I mentioned nothing about Bob or any fears of Kathy's misbehavior in any
