Tell Me More

“I’ll ask him, but we’re probably doing something in the evening and I’m not sure how long it will last.”

“You have fun.”

What an opportunity I was missing. I was badly in need of fashion advice. Kimberly, what should I wear to an orgy?

7

SO WHAT DO YOU WEAR TO AN ORGY? ALTHOUGH, Willis assured me, it wasn’t an orgy. Oh, no, no, no. Just sex among friends.

His friends. Another couple. Great folks. I’d love them. One way or another.

The cowboy boots had been quite a hit with Willis but they were awkward to get in and out of. Not that I’d necessarily take them off. I eventually settled on kitten heels and jeans—I looked good in them and I didn’t want to look as though I were dressing for an orgy even if I was. Jeans with cowboy boots, as Willis had so amply demonstrated, were not great for spontaneous sex, and I didn’t want to picture myself sitting on the floor, undignified, wrenching off my boots with my jeans around my knees, and holding up the activities. (“There in a second!”)

Maybe it would be the sort of house where you shucked your shoes in the hall, or, more likely, your panties.

I topped the jeans with a scoop-neck black T-shirt, and beneath everything was some of my good underwear. I was sure Mr. D. would approve. I toyed for a moment with tidying up my pubic hair, but why bother? I didn’t think, if all went according to Plan A, that I’d have the panties on for long, or, if I chose Plan B—“If you like, you can watch. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” I had been assured—it wouldn’t matter anyway.

Sparkly earrings, yes. Perfume, definitely; I hoped our hosts would not have an allergic reaction.

Willis eyed my living room as I grabbed my black suede jacket and a small clutch purse. “Very nice. And a cash flow with the apartment. Great neighborhood. How much equity do you have? Have you considered—”

I stopped him with a kiss. “Stop being such a Realtor.”

His hands closed on my butt. “Yeah, it’s time to play. Let’s go.”

I guessed from his hyper attitude and the slight dusting of stubble on his jaw that he’d been at work that day. His tie was loosened and shirt sleeves rolled up despite the chill of the evening, and when we got to his car, a shiny BMW this time, I saw his suit jacket folded neatly on the backseat.

The house we drove to was in the suburbs, where too many people tried to live their dream of a house in the mountains. Although the lots had pine trees you could see the neighbors’ lights and hear their dogs bark.

Willis put the car in Park and turned to me. “Don’t be nervous, babe.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are. Body language. I’m an expert.” He leaned to kiss me and I slid down in my seat, wanting the moment to last, the sweetness of his mouth and scrape of his chin.

“Okay.” Ever businesslike, he slipped off his tie, folded it and laid it on top of his jacket on the backseat. “Let’s go. Relax. They’re great folks. They’ll make you feel right at home.”

The woman who answered the doorbell was wearing jeans and a T-shirt like I was, but her breasts were probably twice the size of mine. “Willis, honey, great to see you. We’ve really been looking forward to this, haven’t we, Jake? Jake?” she called over her shoulder and pouted. “He’s watching the game. I’m Cathy. May I take your jacket?”

To my relief she didn’t recognize my voice, but led us downstairs to a basement with a huge flat-screen TV and expensive-looking leather furniture.

“Hey, Willis. We’re in overtime,” the guy hunkered in front of the TV said without looking at us. Willis sat beside him on the couch.

Cathy made a cute face at me, the females in exile from sports, and provided the guys with beers from a bar at one end of the basement, and poured white wine for me.

“You have a lovely home,” I said, since we seemed to be deep in a suburban dream rather than any sort of naked sweaty activities.

Naturally she beamed and offered to show me the rest of the house and I admired the master bathroom with the his-and-hers sinks and listened to the story of how the marble countertop had arrived cracked and the hassle of getting a replacement. The bedroom featured a huge bed with a velvet cover. Cathy darted forward, giggling, and whisked something from the bedside table and into a drawer—I think it might have been a vibrator, but I wasn’t sure.

“Where do you keep your books?” I asked.

“Books? Oh, some over there—” she gestured at a cabinet that held knickknacks and a couple of books “—and some in the study.” She gave me an odd look.

Several rooms later—after viewing bathrooms, spare bedrooms, a study (housing a scant half-dozen more books but many sports trophies), family room and dining room—we ended up in the kitchen, a masterpiece of granite counters, stainless-steel appliances and a beautifully polished hardwood floor, a room I truly envied. She bent to retrieve a tray of crudités from the refrigerator, treating me to an impressive display of cleavage.

As she straightened up she caught me looking and grinned. “Aren’t they great? Jake’s birthday present for me, but I think they’re a present for him.”

What was she talking about? She giggled and placed the tray on the counter. “Boob job,” she explained, and hoisted up her T-shirt.

I stared at her breasts, round and solid with large pink nipples. I’d thought she was wearing a bra, but they were a masterpiece of technology, needing no support.

“Great,” I said. “Were they really small before?”

“About your size,” she said. “Willis is really into boobs. He’ll probably want you to get yours done.”

“We haven’t known each other that long,” I said, wanting to cross my arms protectively over my small and untouched breasts.

“It’s so worth it. Jake loves them and it makes me feel so sexy.” She pulled her top back over her breasts and opened the dishwasher door. At that point I realized I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. She unloaded a handful of brightly colored dildos and butt-plugs into a plastic bowl—I was relieved to see they were the only items in the dishwasher, and that I wouldn’t have to ditch my wineglass and switch to beer.

“Can I do anything?” I asked and immediately regretted my question. What if she asked me to get busy with a dildo?

Fortunately she took my offer at face value and set me to work arranging chips on a serving tray while she scooped various dips into bowls. Then we took the snacks down to the basement, and so far, other than the breast display and the dildos rattling around in the plastic bowl on Cathy’s tray, it was just any weekend afternoon in suburbia.

“Oh, that’s gross, guys,” Cathy said.

The game had ended and the guys sprawled on the couch, beer bottles in hand, while on the screen a blonde with breasts even bigger and more rigid than Cathy’s divided her time between sucking a huge torpedo of a penis and glancing flirtatiously at the camera. The owner of the penis was a large hairy guy with a slight potbelly.

“That is so unreal,” Cathy said, grabbing the remote from Jake and switching the set off. “Jake, this is Jo. I showed her my boobs.”

“Hi,” I said.

Jake, a bulkier version of Willis—clean-cut, middle-class—lurched to his feet and leered. “Hey, little lady. Does my wife have great tits, or what?”

I was so dumbfounded at being addressed as “little lady” I only managed to mutter something along the lines of “Yes, she sure does,” before gulping the remains of my wine.

Willis ambled over and put his arm over my shoulders, letting his fingers fall onto my breast. “Jo’s are pretty nice, too. Small, though.”

“Show us your tits, honey,” Jake said to me.

“What’s the magic word?” I snapped at him and shook Willis’s hand and arm away.

Jake stared at me.

“Oh, honey, you are such a big, bad boy,” Cathy cooed and placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Where are your manners?”

Jake grinned in a way that might have been irresistibly boyish and mischievous and mumbled something apologetic in my direction. He then stuck his hand down his wife’s top.

I marched over to the bar and poured myself another glass of wine. I was feeling very Puritan and uptight, instead of sexually liberated and daring, and I didn’t like it. And now I could see how this room was set up for what was about to happen: the bowl of condoms on the low table near the television, another on the bar along with the dildos, a pile of soft towels, tubes of lube, the sturdy sofa, a collection of ottomans for various positions.

Willis followed me over to the bar. “You okay, Jo?”

“Yeah. Fine.” I was not being the life and soul of the party, that was for sure. I glanced over at the sofa where Jake and Cathy sat, he now nuzzling between her breasts, her T-shirt up to her chin. She gave me an encouraging smile. I wondered if Jake was concerned that her breasts could snap back and injure his nose when he emerged.

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