I wrote a version of this piece a couple of years ago for these, my pretty dumb things, and then I recently revised it for the blog I pen at Sappho's Girls. I figure that I too can be like those ceaseless revisionists Alexander Pope and William Wordsworth in my own piquant and prurient way. Plus, if you can't get at least a couple of good posts from a threesome, you're just doing it wrong. If you like this piece, check out the blog at Sappho's Girls for more of me.
During the summer I like to refer to as "SlutFest 2004," I had this threesome. Clocking in at under forty minutes, it was quite possibly the fastest threesome in history. This threesome was with a totally forgettable man and Ava, this 23 year-old woman who is the postergirl for a new, uncharted, and busy sexuality. Ava, a petite, busty, exotically sloe-eyed brunette, is married; she also has a male lover, and she regularly has separate threesomes with both her husband and her lover, though with different women. (I shudder to think about the cryptography of her Blackberry.) Moreover, she comes at the drop of a g-string and claims to spend most of her time at her desk at work with ben-wa balls inserted in her small, pink pussy, chatting with girls online.
A tiny powerbunny of sexual energy, Ava flounced into the hotel room of the world’s fastest threesome, exclaiming, “I came seven times this morning with my rabbit.” Then she took a fast slug of wine out of the open bottle resting on the laminate dresser and undressed so quickly I don’t recall she was ever even wearing clothes.
The threesome was a blur. If it had been set to music, it would have been to “The Flight of the Bumble Bee” or maybe “The William Tell Overture.” Something fast and furious and building unrelentingly to a theatrical crescendo. Ava and I kissed, Ava and I were fucked in various configurations; I lay below her and licked her pussy as the forgettable man drilled her from behind. My tongue grew numb with the spermicide on his condom. Ava and I interchangeably bobbled our heads over the forgettable man’s dick, Ava tongued my pussy as I myself was fucked forgettably by the forgettable man’s dick.
What was not forgettable was Ava. Her skin had that luscious pearly sheen of skin that’s rarely seen sun. Her body was tight and tiny, except where it overflowed perversely at her breasts and ass. She was like a cartoon, all big bright black eyes and curls and exuberant vibrating sexuality.
Ava came at least three times in our whirlwind threesome last July. The last time I recall clearly—and I do often, sometimes when I’m alone, my middle finger rubbing concentric spirals on my clit—it was when our forgotten male had gone off to shower, and I propped Ava's ass up on a pillow. It was so pert and pretty, so perfect. I spread her thighs and licked slow lazy circles down the downy crack of her ass. I sucked her tiny brown asshole.
I tongued her clit. I cupped her ass, palmed one cheek each in my broad peasant’s hands. I jiggled Ava's cupcake ass as I licked and sucked at her clit, I jounced it rhythmically, bumping her ass up and down quickly in the this-is-the-way-the-lady-rides way so that my tongue, my suckling mouth, my bumping hands worked in quick concert.
I did it, this licking, this jouncing, this bumping, this insistent lap-lap-suck, this bouncing thump-thump-thump until Ava moaned and gasped and bit the pillow, until the man finished with his shower, and left, neither of us noticing, him forgettable in the cupcake pleasure of Ava’s pretty cupcake ass.