Archive-name: Jack.Betty.+.Al

From: jfriday@ada.stat.uga.edu (Paul Stacy)

Subject: ARCHIVE: Jack, Betty, and Al

Newsgroups: alt.sex,alt.sex.stories

From: merlin@violet.berkeley.edu (Jack the Ripper) Subject: Jack, Betty, and Al (rot13)

In 1975, I was living on School Street in Belmont, Massachu- setts, not far from where Concord Avenue dives under the B&M railroad underpass on the way to Belmont Center. I had been divorced for nearly five years, and the woman I loved most in the world was in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, trying to decide whether or not to leave her husband. I was not involved with anyone at this time; later in the year, I found myself involved with a co-work- er, a roommate, and my lover from Pennsylvania. I was in my late twenties and still pretty fit, this being long before I started spending every waking hour behind a VDT.

Poking around the New England sexual underground, I had started corresponding with an older couple from Providence named Betty and Al. (They were both married, but not to each other, although I didn't learn this until later.) Betty and Al were curious about group sex, but they were cautious and didn't want to rush into things. In addition to the natural concerns about disease and the risk of entanglement with psychotic individuals, Al in particular had two concerns: first, he wasn't sure how he would feel watching another man fuck the woman he loved, and second, he wasn't sure how he felt about possible bisexual activ- ity. The bottom line was that they wanted someone sensual but non-threatening to introduce them to things at a pace they could handle.

One rainy spring night, they drove in from Providence and rented a room in a motel near the Howard Johnson's at Fresh Pond in Cambridge. When they had had dinner and gotten settled, they gave me a call, and I drove over to meet them. It was a beauti- ful, warm, spring night, when a medium-heavy rain falling, and I felt good as I parked, walked past the front desk, and knocked on the door of their room.

It was a typical motel room: two large double beds with a night stand along one wall, and a small table surrounded by several chairs over by the window. Betty was seated at the table, and Al and I joined her.

Al was in his early fifties, 6'4" tall, and still in excel- lent shape. He was a humanities professor at a New England university. All in all, he looked like a benign Charlton Heston.

Betty was beautiful. She was in her early forties, 5'10" tall, and had a trim figure that Jane Fonda would have envied. She was a successful real estate agent and dressed the part: she was wearing a knee-length skirt, blouse, stockings, and three- inch high heels. The latter were for my benefit: as a short man (5'6"), I found it frustrating that many taller women wouldn't consider sex with a shorter man. I had discussed this with Betty, and she had promised to make herself as tall as possible if that would excite me.

The ground rules we had agreed on were as follows: any sexual contact was fine, but I was not to penetrate Betty. Al and I had talked it over, and he felt too threatened by the idea, although any other caress was acceptable. As for bi activities between Al and myself, we had decided to leave that up to Betty. The plan for the evening was to give Betty as much pleasure as possible: if it pleased her to see us touch each other, we would; otherwise, whatever happened, happened. We were comfort- able with each other: neither of us was particularly attracted to men, but neither of us was homophobic, either.

We made small talk for awhile, sitting around that tiny motel table, talking about the weather and their drive from Providence and whatnot. But at some point, Betty stood up, clearly ill at ease, and said, "I've never done anything like this before."

"I have," I said. I stood up and stripped to my underpants. "It's easier if we get into bed," I said.

Al followed my lead, except that he stripped down totally. He really was in great shape: strong body, flat belly, medium- sized cock, and a good pair of balls.

And Betty surprised me. She was nervous, but she wasn't shy. It was obvious that she liked taking her clothes off, and it was obvious that she'd stripped for Al before. If you know Randy Newman's "You Can Keep Your Hat On" or David Bromberg's "Sharon," then you know what I mean. She slipped out of her blouse and skirt with delicate twists and turns, then kicked off her shoes and turned to face us in her peach-colored bra, pan- ties, garter belt, and stockings. She was lovely: slender legs, round breasts, and a beautiful bottom that broke my heart. If I had not promised that I would not penetrate her, I would have wanted to take her in the rear. She put her hands on her hips and swayed over to me so that I could unsnap her bra. She re- moved her stockings, slowly sliding each one down until I thought I would go mad. Finally, she moved over to Al, who slipped her panties down to the floor. She stepped out of them, pulled back the covers on the bed, and lay down.

Al and I joined her. I lay on her right, and he lay on her left. As I slid alongside her, I found that her skin was excep- tionally smooth. She smelled sweet and clean, with possibly a touch of Chanel. She was a little tense, sandwiched between the two of us, but she wasn't afraid.

"Touch my breasts," she said, and Al and I obliged. Her breasts were nice: medium sized, very firm, and with nipples that soon became quite hard. I alternated between cupping her breast with my hand and gently pressing her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. Feeling her nipple harden excited me, and my cock stirred slightly. She moaned a little and shifted on the bed, but she was still tense. She touched my thigh tentatively with her hand. She was moaning more strongly now as Al and I brought her nipples to hard little points of desire. She twisted slowly from side to side as one or the other of us sent particu- lar pleasure through her.

But she was still holding back, in spite of the pleasure she was feeling, and I decided to see if I could move her to a level that would involve her total surrender to enjoyment. While continuing to manipulate her nipple with my left hand, I slipped my right hand in a slow caress along her flat belly, stroked her thigh for a few moments to prepare her for what was coming, and then began to touch her pussy. She was not yet wet, and I didn't want to rush things -- instead, I gently fingered her outer labia, feeling for that magic connection that is almost always there. She had soft pubic hair, like the down on a newborn baby's head, and I could feel a ripeness in her that made me dizzy. I used the flat of my hand to press against her clit, still buried in the folds of her mound. The electricity was there. I touched her slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, telling her with my hand what her choices were, asking unspoken questions as her clit began to stiffen. She made her decision: with a deep, shuddering groan, the tension drained from her and she abandoned herself to my hand.

The ice was broken. She was breathing more rapidly now, moaning with pleasure as Al and I touched her. We continued at a slow, relaxed pace, and eventually I felt her pussy become slip- pery with lubricant. I felt Al's hand touch mine as he reached down to caress her. I let him continue with her pussy; I slipped my hand away to stroke her thighs between her knees and her pussy. She had delicate knees for someone so athletic. I looked over at Al and smiled, and he grinned in return. I noticed that Betty was holding his cock and that he was quite hard. I was wet and still not stiff, but I wasn't worried -- I knew what would get me hard.

Sitting up, I slipped out of my undershorts and moved down to kneel by Betty's pussy. I spread her legs gently and moved between them, then began to eat her. It was intoxicating: between the warm, sweet smell of her pussy and the salty-sweet taste of her fluids, I was completely bewitched. I alternated between slipping my tongue inside her and licking her clit, which by now was quite responsive. I could feel the colors move through her as I moved my tongue. I glanced up for a moment to see what Al was up to: he was working on both of her nipples with his hands, and the two of them were kissing deeply. Slowly and carefully, I slipped my thumb into her while continuing to suck on her clit. She was gasping for breath between kisses with Al, and it was obvious that it was not a matter of "if" so much as "when".

It was clear from Al's erection that he was ready to mount her, but I was unwilling to relinquish the sweet wetness of her pussy. Incredibly, we solved the problem without speaking a word: I moved from between her legs and lay beside her "69" fashion, my face at her pussy and my feet by her head. She turned onto her right side, so that her back was to Al and her navel was near my chest. Al lifted her left leg slightly, twist- ed around to get comfortable, and slipped his cock into her pussy from behind. He reached around her to continue fondling her nipples. By now she was moaning and panting continuously, which had me very aroused. Once Al was positioned, I began to lick her clit again while his cock moved in her.

We remained this way for nearly an hour. From time to time, Al would slip out of her, and I would have to put him back in. The first time this happened, she exclaimed, "He put you back into me!" but after that, she just groaned. His cock felt like mine, except that he was slippery with her juices, and it was marvelously strange to touch him. I felt very powerful when I placed his cock so that he could penetrate her again.

Al was incredible. I'm no flash-in-the-pan, but I'm no marathon man, either -- my forte is frequency and quantity. But Al was something else. He seemed like he could go on forever, pumping and thrusting in a steady, relentless way that kept Betty moaning and crying like a wild thing. Sometimes he moved with long, full strokes that took him nearly outside her (it was on these strokes that I occasionally had to put him back into her); other times, he moved with a staccato rhythm that I thought would surely bring him to climax. But nothing seemed to shake his control: by his own groans, I knew he was savoring every inch of her cunt, that they were locked into an intimacy that they knew well.

And my mouth was always there, my lips nibbling on her clit, my tongue tasting her clit and labia, nibbling and tasting, with her clit hard and stiff in its sheath. Al's smell was different from hers, but they were both delicious. Whenever Al thrust forward, she thrust forward too, and when she thrust forward, I gave an extra lick to her clit.

While I was licking her, she was not oblivious to my own desire for pleasure. She caressed my cock and balls, and her hands were very skillful. Too skillful, in fact, because it became obvious to me that if she continued touching me like that, I was going to spill onto the bed before we had gotten anywhere. Reluctantly, therefore, I moved my cock away from her so that I could more fully focus on licking her.

She came four times in that hour. The first two times were sharp, sudden, aching spasms that passed like summer cloudbursts. The third time was cataclysmic: she screamed, screamed again, and continued to scream until I thought she would pass out. My mouth was on her clit, and I could feel the paroxysms sweep through her as Al's cock impaled her like a pin through a butter- fly. She went on forever, longer than I would ever have thought possible. The fourth time was almost anti-climactic, a sort of quiet aftershock that left her quivering and shaking but finally satisfied.

Freeze-frame tableau: Betty resting quietly, Al's rock-hard cock in her pussy, Jack's mouth on her clit. Quiet time passes.

"Stand up on the bed," she said to me. I got to my feet and stood facing her, my back to the wall, my feet straddling Al's shoulders. Al was lying on his back, looking up at me. Betty twisted around so that she was straddling Al's cock and facing me. She moved down so that Al's cock penetrated her again, then took my cock in her mouth. She caressed my balls with one hand and used her other hand to circle the base of my cock. She looked her age now, but her face was beautiful with her lips around my cock, her face suffused with sensuality and satisfac- tion.

I've had better blow jobs. It was partly psychological: I've been blown by women who truly wanted to swallow my semen, and that mind-set imparts an enthusiasm and uninhibited quality that is impossible to fake. Betty didn't have it: it was clear she didn't want me to spill in her mouth. It was partly physio- logical: her mouth was really too small to stimulate me proper- ly, although I'm not particularly large. But she sucked me with a cool efficiency that was almost professional and which had an appeal of its own, as if she were a dental hygienist working on my teeth, and watching her beautiful lips working on my shaft, I felt a rush of power and desire that made up for any mere failure of her technique. I ached for her, and holding her head in my heads so that I could better thrust into her mouth, I was over- come with a feeling of utter tenderness for her.

"I'm going to come," I finally said, and she slipped me out of her mouth and massaged me with her fingers. As she took me the last few strokes to orgasm, it was clear to me that her talent was in her fingers, not her mouth: she was just enough out-of-sync with me that her touch first delayed my climax, moving me millimeter-by-millimeter closer to orgasm but never letting me quite reach it, and then amplified it with a few agonizing strokes that were totally in sync, so that it was my turn to scream uncontrollably as my seed spurted onto her breasts and splashed down onto Al's chest, and she looked up at me with an expression I knew well, the look of power that comes with giving another person total satisfaction.

Freeze-frame. Tableau.

Until my knees got weak and I slipped down onto the bed, and her head fell forward to rest on Al's chest, despite the splashes of cum. I moved down to smell her cunt, and Al's limp cock slipped out of her, and it was then that I realized that he too had finally finished, had finished while she was sucking me. I licked her tentatively, trying to determine whether she was truly satisfied, tasting the chlorine-spicy flavor of Al's semen, but it was over: she was done.

And at some point, while the three of us lay there in the post-coital euphoria that one of my lovers called "Bliss Hotel", we started to laugh, partly from joy, partly from relief, but mostly from pride, pride in having pleased each other, at having pulled it off. It felt good to laugh together, the smells of our bodies filling the room, and the sound of the rain on the window.

While Al showered, Betty and I lay there together, her head resting in my lap, and my eyes admiring her trim lines. She really was built like a gazelle. At some point, I said, "You really are something else," and she smiled an enigmatic smile.

I never saw them again. We corresponded for awhile, but eventually my lover from Pennsylvania left her husband and came to live with me, and my life became incredibly complicated.


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