Three Lovers

1. Wednesday evening: We proceeded to bed almost as soon as I arrived. After we had expended the initial impetus to screw, we prepared our dinner in the nude. I coated the vegetables in my not-so-secret pussy sauce. He spanked my breasts with a wooden spoon and probed the entrance of my cunt with its rounded edge. My asshole: this he stoppered with the cork from the chianti. Amadeo and I took turns on the table.

We ate pasta from each other's bodies and had a messy and splendid time of it. Amadeo took sadistic glee in poking me in sensitive places with the tines of his fork. He applied the serrated edge of the knife over my abdomen. He spilled hot sauce over my pubis. I layered the food over his groin and used fingers and teeth. I nibbled at his foreskin and sucked at the shaft. The wine stained his chest red. For dessert, I had semen in my gelato. He licked ice cream from my pelvis. He did it slowly. Fingertips sweeping over the G-spot, the tongue flicked carefully atop the clit. Tease and misdirection and a knowing touch conspired to leave me soaked, breathless, and precariously positioned on the precipice of orgasm, waiting for a push and the perpendicular descent.

Before coffee in the morning, Amadeo fucked me over the kitchen table. I laid on my back while he stood on his toes and thrust his penis into my cunt. He propped my left foot on his shoulder and licked the sole. His fingers combed through my hair. He gave me his thumb to suck, then smothered my mouth and nose with his palm. The resolute grip of his fingers constricted my throat. I anchored myself with a handhold on his hip while the spillage from my vagina smeared into the nest of his pubis and slicked between our thighs. Amadeo kicked off the wooden chair, and he fucked me harder. Rough paws mauled my tits. I raised an arm above my head and seized the side of the table. I liked having the solidity of oak beneath me, the way the wood vibrated under my weight when Amadeo rammed himself forward and bottomed out and reversed direction. My moans gave accompaniment to the liquid sounds of fuck. He hauled me from the table, up by the buttocks, when he came. The cock spasmed in the throes of his little death. I bore down with my muscles to wrench the semen out of him. Later, I lapped my secretions from the polished wood.

2. Friday night: I wore an emerald cocktail dress, with a deep V neck that showed cleavage and a halter tie that bared my back. The hem of the skirt landed conservatively two inches above the knee. The mostly rayon fabric hugged tightly to my curves and stretched about my legs when I stepped. It had a lustrous sheen. The occasion was a fundraising soirée for a charity for which a friend from the orchestra works. The conversation bent toward art and music. It was my kind of crowd.

A man in a purple shirt, a sport jacket, and dark blue slacks chatted me up. After the party, we unwound at a champagne bar. Hours after midnight, we checked in to a hotel in central London where we had drunken sex. I cannot reconstruct the narrative with any clarity. Scattered images remain. I remember the checker patterned ceiling swimming into and out of focus behind him as he fucked me from above. I remember his head between my thighs and how I compressed the sides of his face in their vice. I remember tracing the tip of my tongue along the veins in his cock before looping a condom over the head. I remember dragging my nails down his arms as he slammed into me from a height. I remember sloppy kisses. I don't recollect whether he made me come.

3. Saturday night & most of Sunday: Frank and I had dinner early in the evening at a Lebanese restaurant. From about 9 pm until 2 pm, we spent our waking and sleeping hours installed in my bed. When we commenced, I had almost a fresh box of condoms sitting on the nightstand. Now, the two last condoms in the whole apartment are buried at the bottom of my book bag. One day later, the scent of sex still saturates my pillows and sheets.

Frank took me in every pose. He had me on top. He had me underneath. He had me on my hands and knees. He took my ass from above with my legs suspended in the air. He took it hunched over me from behind. He had my buttocks with my back flush against his chest. When he needed a break to forestall an incipient climax, he paused the fucking to lap at my cunt. In my turn, I sucked him on my knees. I sucked him sitting cross legged on my bed. I sucked him with my head dangling from the side of the mattress. I sucked him pulling the cock backward between his legs after thoroughly devouring his winking anus. It didn't signify in the least that he ran out of semen long before we had finished. The cock maintained its steel. The balls would shudder and the shaft would twitch. We kept going until it did, and then we repeated.

One of the qualities that makes Frank a gifted lover is his sense of the ebb and flow of sex, the innate knowledge of how to transition and when. He has me rutting on all fours, with his prick prodding my cunt from behind. His fingers stroke each of my flanks, brushing them from the hips to the rise of the breasts. When he penetrates and the cock fills me inside, the hands shift minutely. The heels of his palms press against the undersurface of the breasts. The pads of his thumb and index finger make tiny pincers. He squeezes the nipples and gently draws them out. The face of the thumb feathers over the sensitive nerve endings. The forefinger steadies this movement. The hands then cup the breasts and flatten them against muscle and bone, and he uses this improved leverage to slam my body backward against his groin. Then he raises me upright by wrapping his arms about my shoulders and lifting. At the same time, he sinks down on the mattress into a sitting position, and he lowers me over his penis so that I am squatting on my knees between his legs. After a time, he kisses my neck where it joins with the collar, and he presses his fingers between the shoulder blades to coax me prone on the bed. He extends my legs and blankets me with his body. The cock fucks without interruption. The tempo of sex hasn't altered though we have cycled through a spectrum of positions. All of them feel different. All of them feel new. No matter how many times we have done this before, the sensation is unique to the moment.

It's like music. There is a theme in the violins, and then the celli pick up the exact melody one register down, and they pass it on to the winds, who carry it. My lips are at the embouchure. My fingers are floating over the middle keys, and I am listening, and I am watching his baton and timing the entrance, and the harmony stretches itself into me deep down, and I experience it in a way I don't know how to describe. There aren't words for this. The music envelops me while I am shaping the notes. It creates me just as I create it. I am somewhere in its core. And I am not alone. I hardly know how I got to this place or where it is I am going next. I remember to breathe and keep on playing.

Republished with permission from Leah Lays London. Want to see your true tale of lust on Fleshbot? Contact us. Photo by John B. Root.