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I didn't come from a rich family. As it turns out, I did come from a horny family.
It was mid-February of 1989, a month after my 23rd birthday. I had come to New York for a vacation. I'd just spent the 12 months since getting my B.A. by earning my Masters. As with my first four years of college, I had supplemented a very small scholarship with very large loans and whatever part-time work I could find, usually word-processing.
Unlike my first four years of college, I hadn't had a man more than once in 12 months, and that was essentially a "mercy fuck" provided during a brief visit by my former steady. A four-night fling with a Puerto Rican co-ed in my dorm had been diverting, but not fully satisfying. And, of course, with the threat of AIDS all over the place, I had long since given up the stunts of my freshman year.
Some folks look at me and are a little surprised by that "mercy fuck" business. "But, Janet," they protest, "you're really cute and sexy! You can get any guy you want!"
The problem is, there aren't that many to want.
Want to bet? Eliminate: drug- and alcohol-abusers; the witless; the inconsiderate; the ones whose idea of foreplay is "Yo, bitch - suck!"; the ones who want to own you and occasionally smack you around... Well, you cut down the available ones pretty damn fast.
Then eliminate the ones who are strictly gay or frighteningly promiscuous, whether straight or bisexual. Next, skip the fools who won't even talk about Safe Sex. Finally, cross out the ones who are in a committed relationship (whether they want to fool around is not the point; if they don't, you can't have them, and if they do, you don't want the SOBs).
And, finally, they had to be willing to put up with the kind of schedule I had and be at least as bright as me. (Modest, eh?)
Net effect - one "mercy fuck" in 12 months.
"But, Janet," they protest, et cetera.
By the time I picked up my bags at Newark Airport, I was one very, very horny woman. And tired and cranky. The bus from Ann Arbor (where I took my Masters) to Detroit Metro had been delayed in traffic, and despite allowing a three-hour cushion, I'd barely made my flight. And then sat in the damn jet on the runway for 45 minutes. Since smoking was a capital offense in the bus, the jet and both airports, I was itchy from nicotine deprivation. (So I'm not that bright, after all.)
I collected my bags and got cleared by the bored security creature checking claim-checks against luggage tags and made for the exit and the buses (no smoking, naturally) into Manhattan. At least while waiting for the bus I could grab a smoke - or 10, figuring my luck so far in traveling. Nothing like a cold, rainy Thursday in Newark Airport to put you in a good frame of mind.
Just inside the revolving doors opening to the vehicle ramp stood a tall, uniformed black-skinned man holding up a piece of shirtboard inscribed with "Janet L. Dunning."
"I'm her." I showed him my ticket with my name on it.
"Your brother sent a car to meet you," he said. (Actually, what he said in heavily accented English was, "Your brothah send de car to meeeet you." But his West Indian or Haitian accent didn't make him at all difficult to understand.)
"Oh!" I was pleasantly surprised.
"If you'll wait here, I bring it to the door."
"I'll be outside." He looked puzzled. "Smoking," I added, somewhat petulantly.
He nodded and grinned and carried the bags outside for me, then half- jogged down the sidewalk. I lit a More and sucked the smoke down, savoring it. My hands were shaking, and not just with the nicotine craving. It was damn cold out there, and a freezing rain was falling.
Less than 10 minutes passed before a Lincoln Towne Car pulled up in front of me. My chauffeur hurried out, held the door for me, loaded my bags into the trunk, and then we were away into the maze of roads leading eventually out of Newark Airport and onto the Turnpike heading for New York. The rain and the lights in the night made it all a bit surreal.
"Do you mind if I smoke?"
"Oh, no, ma'am." I could see white teeth flashing in the rearview mirror. "You just make yourself comfortable and unwind after that nasty flight."
Which I did, especially after he pointed out that there was a very small but adequately stocked liquor cabinet complete with ice bucket. The Towne Car may not have been a limousine, but I was not about to complain.
With the weather and traffic, we made good time - about an hour to my brother's door. He owned a two-bedroom co-op in an old high-rise on Christopher Street. With a doorman, even.
My driver refused any tip - "Your brother has already taken care of it, ma'am, but thank you just the same." - and the doorman gave me the keys in a sealed envelope after putting my bags in the elevator for me. I read Pete's note during the slow ride up to the 16th floor.
"A close friend has had some bad news - a death in the family - and I've gone over there. I'll be back by 10. Make yourself at home."
... It was signed with his initials and the friend's phone number.
I'd never been to my brother's apartment before. Pete was almost 15 years older than me. (I was what they call an "Oooops" baby; my next- oldest sibling, my sister Maureen, is 12 years older than I am.) He and I hadn't been particularly close, since he was away at college by the time I was four, and he was seldom home on vacations. Sure, we'd stayed in touch with cards and at the occasional family get-togethers - usually funerals and weddings - but he was pretty much a loner. His address resurrected my curiosity about his sexual preferences.
I found the light switches - dimmers - and explored. What I saw confirmed what I already knew: My brother the portfolio manager was making out quite nicely, at least in financial terms.
Nice living room, replete with all the electronic entertainment gear you'd expect, plus a couple of lovely walnut bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes flanking what appeared to be a working fireplace with a marble mantle. Nice. A pair of French windows opened onto a narrow terrace, but given the miserable weather, I figured I'd pass it up. There was a small dining room, a kitchen almost big enough for two grownups to stand in and a very nicely appointed bathroom with three doors.
I went back into the living room and opened the other two doors. Behind the first was what was obviously my brother's bedroom, nicely but not lavishly appointed - though I did note the bed was king-sized and looked to be a flotation bed of some flavor. Another pair of French doors opened onto what I assumed to be a continuation of the terrace.
The other door opened onto what I'd expected to be the second bedroom. Maybe it was planned that way, but now it was a small home office, equipped with a stereo, a small television (topped by a cable TV converter) and what looked like a custom-built computer desk. No sign of a bed.
I tried the lone other door in the room, hoping for a Murphy bed, and found myself back in the bathroom.
And just where did my big brother plan to have me sleep?
I sighed and resigned myself to a hot bath and a change of clothes and waiting for his return. I gave his workstation the once-over and went back to the living room. I inspected the curved, modular sofa more closely and realized it had a pullout section in it. Question answered.
I pulled out a change of clothes and my toiletry kit and stowed my bags next to the entry foyer's closet, then went into the bathroom through his bedroom and drew a hot bath. There was a small bottle of scented bath oil - lavender - near the tub, and again I wondered about my brother's sexual preferences. I stripped as the bathroom filled with steam and automatically gave myself the once-over.
I looked like hell. My hair was a mess, my eyes were red-rimmed and tired, and my posture was terrible: roundshouldered and slouching.
"Perk up, woman!" I ordered my reflection.
"Blow it out of your ass!" my reflection growled back.
I turned off the taps and stepped gingerly into the tub. The water was almost too hot, so I lowered myself slowly. It was a full-size tub, so at five-foot-four, I could stretch my legs comfortably and settle slowly till just the tips of my breasts were visible.
I just lay there, wallowing in sybaritic pleasure, for about 15 minutes. The hot water was slowly relaxing me, and I was starting to feel better. Better enough to let my hands get frisky and start toying with my nipples.
I've got somewhat strange nipples. They're rather broad - maybe an inch and a half across - and when they're excited, the whole things swell up till they're about the size and hardness of half of a walnut shell. I like having them licked, sucked and caressed - who doesn't? - but I also really get off on having them squeezed, nibbled and even lightly bitten. During my lesbian interlude I discovered that I could even cum just by having them properly toyed with.
Before long, I was playing with my nipples with one hand and my pussy with the other. And my imagination was running amok, starting with my favorite fantasies and wandering off into the truly outrageous. I got myself a nice, medium-weight (for masturbation) orgasm finally while I imagined myself sixty-nining with one well-hung stud while another did me doggy-style. All of us came simultaneously, of course, and the fella licking me was as good as Tina, my lesbian interlude.
.... There is more of this story ...