David lounges on my couch in the sunlight reading a magazine from the coffee table; he is wearing a pair of cutoff jean shorts and no shirt. His dark features glow in the warm rays, reflecting off his chiseled jaw line, sending shadows playing down his lean torso. He shifts and smiles at me, his warm brown eyes glinting, flirting, while a short lock of brown hair swings across his eyes. His body moves like a big, sexy, lazy lion nestled in the throw pillows.
Paul is on my phone in the kitchen. Tall and lanky, with a young Steve McQueen face, he wears a white tank top that fits his wide chest like a cotton sheath and accentuates his powerful biceps. Chatting with his head down, he glances at me with big blue eyes, set off by close-cropped bleach blonde hair, and grins like a big kid. He talks on the phone and watches me like he is talking only to me; even though I can’t hear what’s being said, he has turned this into an intimate act.
When I’m about to blush, Michael yells from a hidden part of my kitchen, “Who wants Irish in their coffee? Hey! Never mind, I’ll just make a bunch of ’em.” I imagine the built skater boy in his black vest, ripped jeans and cocked vintage hat — complimented by colorfully tattooed arms — ransacking my cupboards for treats. But then, my house is full, and in fact, it’s a circus of gorgeous strangers. How did I get here?
A few years ago I happened to be in the right place at the right time — San Francisco, the dot-com boom. Before everything and everyone went bust, I cashed in my chips (actually my stocks), and got out. I sank it all into a beautiful Victorian in a very desirable neighborhood — the Victorians that tourists flock to when they want to see beautiful San Francisco heritage homes and take pictures of the “painted ladies.”
The problem was, it was just too much house for one lonely girl. When Jeffrey moved out, I was relieved at first to be free of a relationship that had simply become dead in the water. But as I dipped my toes in the dating pool after three long years, I found out that I didn’t want just anyone in my house. Still, my house was so empty. I began to actively invite out of town guests and friends to stay, even friends of friends. When Jill called and asked if her friend’s band could crash at my house on their small West Coast tour, I said sure.
When the bus pulled up in front of my house, I thought it was just another tour bus — until I saw the horns, drums, skateboards, suitcases, vintage hatboxes and musicians piling out, stretching their legs. Uh-oh, I thought, what have I done? There were easily over a dozen men and women emptying out, and they didn’t look like any band I’d ever seen — they were all gorgeous. Sexy men hefted drums, model-type art-school boys joked around and lit cigarettes, and even the girls were cute; sort of like softer, cuter Suicide Girls. They were all in various states of undress, which I’d normally attribute to the unusually hot weather, though I had a feeling they dressed like that no matter if there was a blizzard outside. I was just in my regulation jeans, boots, plain t-shirt, hair in a simple ponytail, and as always my glasses. Just looking at them made me feel drab, dizzy, high — and aroused, all at the same time.
Suddenly I had over two dozen attractive strangers in my house, laughing, yelling, playing horns, playing cards, eating my food, and even helping me clean up. Four of the women had taken over the bathroom, and armed with cranberry-vodkas from my bar, half-fastened costumes and makeup kits, they had settled in nicely, to the dismay of anyone who had to pee. I felt like a prude around their open sexuality, and worried they’d think I was anal retentive when I made them smoke outside on my back deck. I went into the kitchen to survey the wreckage, and found myself between Michael and Paul, who didn’t seem to mind standing very, very close to me. I felt like my skin was covered with prickly electrical impulses, running in a current straight down to my panties. Michael told me they were a “punk rock marching band,” all horns and drums, which explained — well, everything. A lithe brunette with long, fake eyelashes and ridiculously big brown eyes burst into the room and came right up to me with a hug — and a sticky lip-gloss kiss, right on my lips. This was a first for me. “Thank you for everything, Miss Jessi,” she purred, barely an inch from my face. “Jessi, meet Tanya,” Michael laughed, with a bemused smile. Everything was a new sensation, and I was overwhelmed, unsettled — I broke from her embrace, made some excuse about checking the bathroom and left the three of them to the coffee, feeling like a totally uncool dork.
Now I survey my house; I am surrounded by stylish, attractive young men and women in my own home. Many wander around in their underwear, as if the house was theirs. I decide love it. After strong, spiked coffee courtesy of Michael and the contents of my bar, I wander out to the back deck where Paul is softly playing his trumpet, looking like Chet Baker or some other icon from a bygone era. He doesn’t stop playing when I wander over, and he turns to face me while he plays a melody that gets carried away on the warm breeze. He plays closer and closer, lowering the pitch of his horn as he saunters closer, eyes locked on mine. He moves like a panther, a tall, wide-shouldered tough boy. All man, but somehow still a boy. My senses are in overdrive, my head swims and my panties feel too tight, too hot — I am throbbing, and he takes the horn from his lips to lean in and give me a kiss.
But he doesn’t kiss me. Stubble and sweat from his upper lip press into my lips as he nuzzles my face like a cat, pushing my jaw up for him to nibble on my neck; bite and nip under my ear. With trumpet in one hand, he slides his other big, rough hand along after his mouth on my neck, encircling the back of my head and pulling me into him, our necks and faces rubbing like a pair of crazy swans. It feels like being really thirsty for a long time and then getting the coolest glass of water; it feels like home.
Tanya’s voice startles me. “Hey, you know everyone can see you out here?” I am frozen, but can’t move away from Paul. She’s in a short black housedress and her long legs look like a gazelle’s as she takes sure strides over to our corner of the deck. Closer, she cocks her head at me, looks back and forth between Paul and I, and whispers, “Why don’t you let me help you?”
Help? Yes, help. I need help. Because I’m totally freaking out. Here I am kissing a handsome stranger — no wait, is this her boyfriend? What does she mean by ‘help’? Is she coming on to me, was she hitting on me earlier? Is she mad, am I crazy? I’ve tried plenty of things when it comes to sex, but never done any of this before — whatever this is. I’m speechless.
Tanya doesn’t need an answer. She takes my hand and leads me through my own house, though the chaos of drinking and yelling and loud music blasting from my own stereo, and up my staircase. Paul holds my other hand. I feel like I’m going to faint, or giggle, or melt like butter on the spot. Everyone knows. “I know where your bedroom is,” she tells my coyly over her shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind that I put my stuff in there.” I shake my head in response, but she doesn’t see it. Pulling me by the hand, she leads me through the door and into my room, strewn with other-girl things everywhere, and turns to face me.
She kisses me, softly. It’s now my second time, kissing a girl in a sexy way. It’s so soft, so nice. Tanya puts her hands on my shoulders and spins me around to face Paul. “I’m helping,” she giggles. Paul takes my face in his hands and kisses me, finally kisses me, deep, and strong. He smells like brass and boy all mixed together, and as we kiss I smell another scent, like vanilla and oranges, as Tanya encircles me from behind and presses her small breasts into my back.
Paul pulls me away from Tanya and plants little kisses on my face as he pulls the elastic out of my hair, releasing my long black locks to my shoulders. Smiling like a devil, and making me smile too, he lifts my t-shirt over my head. Tanya moves behind me to unfasten my bra slowly, cupping my breasts as they come free from the cups. She kisses my neck and raises goose pimples as Paul pulls off one of my boots, then another, and unzips my jeans. They’re undressing me slowly, as if in a languorous dream that I think I’ve had before, but I’m not sure. My pants slide down my hips, and faced with my panties Paul hugs my hips in an embrace, pressing his cheek against my pubic mound.
He slides my cotton boyleg briefs to the floor, releases me, and stands while Tanya moves in to press me into him from behind. Sandwiched between them again, I feel my nipples harden against Paul’s chest as four hands run over my body, exploring my waist, stomach, breasts, ass and between my legs. Rough hands and small, soft hands pinch, press and caress every inch of me. My thighs are damp and I feel swollen with arousal, and just as I think they’re too wet, I feel Paul’s long, hard cock straining against his jeans and into my wetness; the front of his button-fly is damp and dark. And looking very, very full with his hard-on. I run both hands over it, squeeze it at the bottom, the middle, then the top, feeling the fat head through the thick fabric, try to pull on it. Paul moans, pressing his heat and hardness into my hand.
Tanya slides her arms through mine, pulling them back behind me so my chest is arced outward as if on the prow of some fantastic ship. Gently, she eases me backward onto the bed, so I’m sitting between her spread legs, feeling the intense heat of her pussy on the small of my back. She bites and kisses me from behind as Paul stands in front of me; his glorious bulge inches from my face. My arms are pinned; I giggle, “she’s helping,” and Paul grins as he wrenches open his fly, pulling his thick, meaty pink cock free from his boxers. The head is fat — just as I suspected — and I strain forward to kiss the tip.
I love the feeling of being held back, and wanting. I am more turned on than ever. Paul obliges my oral fixation by easing forward so I can completely taste his gorgeous member, savoring the texture of his skin as I roll his cockhead around on my tongue, experimenting with trying to swallow his shaft. I can feel him getting even harder, and just when I realize this he pulls away and sinks to his knees to kiss me, pulling my face forward in his hands as Tanya pulls back on my arms. I’m delirious, he’s delicious, and she’s decadent.
They push and pull me in an erotic game of back-and-forth. Paul slides his hands down to my nipples and pulls in a different way, making me gasp. I can feel the head of his cock at my entrance, and with one hand he presses the hard head against my clit, back and forth, and up and down. My legs begin to shake, and Tanya releases my arms to busy herself with my breasts and nipples, tentative squeezes and pulls, as Paul’s cock pushes my clit from side to side in rhythm. I want to keep my arms back, so I hug them back around Tanya, pulling the heat of her crotch and her little breasts into my back.
Paul’s cock is unrelenting; my clit feels huge, hot and swollen. He’s fucking my clit, and I’m about to come, just like this. My breath hitches once, twice — then I explode, right as Paul plunges in to my very, very wet pussy. The contractions from my orgasm squeeze his big cock like a vise as he thrusts roughly into me, kissing me, holding my face as he fucks me hard and fast. My orgasm tears through me in a pounding reprise like a white light exploding from my core, from my sex. I can feel his heavy balls hitting my ass; Tanya is squeezing handfuls of my breasts and watching over my shoulder. Paul buries his face into my neck and cries out as I feel his cock spasm with the first pulses of his orgasm; two, three, four, five, six — then calm.
We’re a sticky mess, tangled in a heap of bodies on my bed. Then I realize — we forgot about Tanya! I have no idea what to do with girls! I struggle up from under Paul, and look at her flushed and smiling face. “Oh, don’t worry Miss Jessi,” she says with a smirk. “We’re booked to play San Francisco all weekend long…”