Chapter 1: The Encounter

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Ma/Ma, Mult, Mind Control, BDSM, Spanking, Humiliation, Anal Sex, Fisting, Sex Toys, Cream Pie,

Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Encounter - Stan and Tracy are a couple of middle-class intellectuals. They consider their attitude towards sex and marriage liberal, maybe even adventurous. However, reading Stan's account carefully makes us wonder whether they are really any different from the average middle-class couple.<br>Everything changes when they meet Helen Joe, a woman they both are strongly attracted to. Helen seems to be able to detect and satisfy their hidden desires.

We both noticed her at the same instant. As soon as she entered the room.

The 'we' above refers to Cathy, an extremely attractive lady who happens to be my wife, and me, Stan, an incorrigible voyeur. I can't stop myself looking at other women. I try to disguise my interest. I refrain from ogling the object of my attention openly, but Cathy has told me often enough that my intentions are completely transparent. It seems that my attempts at hiding the attraction I feel are utterly fruitless. But this time I wasn't even trying to hide my interest. I was staring open-mouthed at the young woman who had just entered the hotel dining room, when I heard Cathy say, "Isn't she gorgeous?"

I knew I had been caught. Cathy might consider my staring so openly at another woman a sign of disrespect. I turned towards her, ready to apologize. But there wasn't a trace of disapproval on her face. Her look was as lecherous as mine probably had been.

"You?" I said, dumbfounded. "I thought you weren't into women."

"Not into women per se. But this one's special. She makes my head spin. I'm getting wet just looking at her."

Was she mocking me? Was she poking fun at the way men talk when they see an attractive female? I checked her face again. She was serious.

"Let's try to catch her attention," Cathy said.

At this stage, it might be useful to say a few words about myself, and about Cathy, the woman who was sitting next to me.

We have been living together for nine years and got married roughly six months ago. The fact that we decided to get official approval after having lived together for such a long time caught most of our friends by surprise. They would have been even more astonished had they known the reason for our decision.

Our life as a couple was going well. There were the occasional noisy arguments, but they just served to clear the air, and to give us a reason for celebrating our reconciliation. In this respect we weren't any different from the other, married, couples we knew.

There was no pressure on us to get married. Most people didn't even know we weren't, and those who did know didn't see it as a problem. There were the occasional bureaucratic hiccups when I couldn't sign a document on Cathy's behalf and she wasn't able to act for me, but we had learned to live with these little annoyances.

Then, one evening - we were lying in bed, too tired to engage in serious lovemaking, but not tired enough to go straight to sleep - Cathy said, "I think we should get married."

It came like a bolt out of the blue. I wasn't aware of having said or done anything that might make her long for the security of officially recognized matrimony. I wondered what had caused this sudden change of mind.

"What for?" I asked.

"So that I can be unfaithful to you."

I laughed. What a relief! I had feared something more serious. "But you have the right to sleep with anybody you want. We have an open relationship, remember?"

"That's exactly the point. There's no fun in cheating on you if it isn't really cheating."

"Oh, I see. You want me to marry you so you can get more excitement out of fucking someone else?" My reply came out much stronger than I had intended.

"Yes, but it isn't as simple as that. I would feel really rotten, seeing that you yourself have resisted all temptations, even though you're entitled to having a bit on the side. If we were married, we could both have an extramarital fling."

Her certainty that I wasn't fooling around hurt my male pride. "What makes you so sure that I'm not seeing someone else?"

"A woman knows. It's called female sensitivity. I don't need to find lipstick on your collar or smell another woman's perfume to know there's someone else. By the same token, I know that so far you've only been looking."

Now there was something I might feel guilty about: my habit of undressing every female which happens to cross my path with my eyes. I prided myself on having perfected a detached cursory glance which allows me to inspect my target without my interest being noticed. Had my technique failed me? Had Cathy caught on to it? Was she mad at me because I had done it in her presence? Was this the real reason behind her sudden interest in wedlock?

I studied her face to see how deep in trouble I was. But Cathy just smiled at me, a little amused.

"Or did you really believe I hadn't noticed how you ogle every short skirt that passes? Do you think you can fool me when you pretend to read the newspaper or study the wine list while you give them the once-over? Oh, darling! I can read you like an open book. You should see how your eyes beam under your half-closed lids every time one of those bra-less wonders walks by."

I think I actually blushed. I felt embarrassed that my carefully constructed mask had been so ineffective. I stammered something which could be taken as an apology. But Cathy wasn't after an admission of guilt.

"There's nothing wrong with looking at other women. I think it's quite natural. In fact, I take it as a good sign. It shows that you're still very much alive in the libido department. It just annoys me sometimes that you seem to believe I'm so dim that I don't notice.

"To come back to our subject: if we were married, you could stop staring and actually do something with them. Just like I could give in to my secret admirer."

I tried to convince Cathy that I had no desire to sleep around and, even if I did, I couldn't see the logic that I had to get married for this purpose. It seemed to be a typical example of 'female logic'.

Cathy remained adamant, however, and returned to the subject of tying the knot on a few more occasions. In the end, I gave in, and we're now a married couple.

Cathy followed through with her plan of 'being unfaithful' to me. She didn't even wait until the end of the period which 'normal' couples call their honeymoon. But it seems that the experience didn't live up to her expectations.

"You can't judge a book by its cover," she just said when she returned from her escapade.

"Any book I know?" I asked her.

"Yes, you know him, but he's not a close acquaintance. You only meet him occasionally. I'd rather not tell you his name to save both of you embarrassment when you meet again."

I considered it part of my role as newly-wedded liberal husband to encourage her to give it another try.

"People need some time to get to know each other. Very few hit it off on the very first date."

Cathy made a second attempt, but came back just as disappointed as after the first one.

"It looks like I'm stuck in this monogamous relationship with you, darling," she said as she hugged me. She made me feel good about this new married freedom. I believe it has given our lovemaking a new, more intense quality.

The fact that Cathy had carried out her plan without much concern for how I might feel about it encouraged me to pursue my own adventure. There was Julie, a waitress at a restaurant where I stopped occasionally for lunch, who had caught my eye the first time I saw her. I always tried to get a table in her section, and she usually found the time for a little chat. But I had never made a pass at her.

I went to the restaurant and after my meal I asked her as causally as I could manage when her shift ended and if she had anything planned for afterwards. When I suggested we'd take a room at a nearby motel, she accepted as if this was the most natural thing to do. It seems that she had been wondering when I would finally make my move.

The sex with Julie was good, but what pleased me most was the fact that I had been able to 'conquer' her so easily. It gave my ego an enormous boost, particularly because she wanted to see me again.

I now meet Julie every other week for an afternoon at the same motel. It almost seems that she is grateful to me for taking the trouble to meet her, for letting her suck my cock and making her come when I make love to her. What happens in that motel room is honest, wholesome, satisfying sex, but nothing out of the ordinary. It isn't the kind of stuff which I occasionally read about on the internet, with ten-inch cocks, never-ending orgasms and rivers of body fluids.

Cathy knows about my encounters with Julie. The two even met once by accident when I was out shopping with Cathy. Each one knew who the other one was, but they just shook hands and didn't go beyond the small talk which is part of a polite conversation.

Cathy herself has given up any hope that her 'secret admirer' will ever live up to her expectations. And she hasn't made any attempt at finding someone else who might.

There is a certain irony in our situation. Cathy wanted to get married so that she could be 'unfaithful' to me. And now I'm the one who has an extramarital affair. Other men might just say, "Tough. Life's a bitch!" but I can't help feeling a certain amount of guilt about it.

I asked Julie if there wasn't any other man interested in her, someone who might be able to see her more often rather than just one afternoon every other week, but she explained that she considers our arrangement ideal. I was considerate, gentle, virile (I liked that part), discreet, and married to a woman who understood. No other man could offer her all these qualities.

Julie told me that she was living with her sick mother, who was being looked after by a nurse during the day, but in the evening Julie had to take over. Julie never went out in the evening; she couldn't accept the invitations for dinner, to the movies, or other social events which are part of a normal affair. The only time she had available for intimacy were the afternoon hours after she left her job and before she returned to her mother.

After this revelation I found it impossible to drop Julie. I don't exactly love her, but I'm sensitive enough to know that ending our relationship would be a severe blow for her.

My feeling of unease towards Cathy made me once suggest that she might want to join Julie and me for a threesome. This wouldn't exactly satisfy her desire to be unfaithful to me, but it would be a new experience for all of us. Cathy told me categorically that she wasn't into women, and that was the end of the conversation as far as she was concerned.

I accepted her refusal. After all, I wouldn't have warmed to the suggestion to go to bed with Cathy and another man. That idea was a definite turn-off.

We also briefly considered the possibility of partner swapping. We would have to find a like-minded couple we would feel physically attracted to and then satisfy our curiosity with our respective counterpart in separate bedrooms. But we didn't know any couple which was into swinging, and we didn't want to risk embarrassing ourselves by asking people who weren't as open-minded as we are. Answering advertisements or placing our own ad also seemed a bit risky - you never know what kind of weirdoes might turn up.

In the end, we realized that our curiosity was not strong enough to overcome our fears and we settled for being a conventional couple in which the husband has 'a bit on the side'.

The subject of our attention was still standing near the door, looking across the dining room. At first it seemed that she was looking for someone she expected to be among the guests. But soon it became clear that she was trying to decide where to sit.

She was an exceptionally beautiful woman, just past the stage when I might have referred to her as a girl. She had a face like a saint and a body that could only have been designed by the devil. The narrow, white dress which outlined her slender body looked elegant and sexy at the same time. Her face showed those delightful features which are the result of mixing Asian and European blood. Her hair was pitch-black with a silky shine, completely straight, resting on her shoulders like a thick veil.

Cathy and I weren't the only people who had noticed her arrival. It seemed that everybody in the dining room was looking at her - except for a few who were too busy with their food to lift their heads. She was one of the last people to arrive and all tables were already occupied by at least one person.

Some of the men who were sitting by themselves waved to her, inviting her to join them. There was a group of three men, gesticulating frantically, offering her the one remaining place at their table. Cathy decided to enter the competition. She stood up and waved to the young woman.

As the young woman looked towards us, I gave her a big smile which was meant to be reassuring, but I have no idea what it looked like. My heart almost missed a beat when she turned in our direction and came towards our table. There was a grace and elegance in the way she moved which made me think of a cat. She walked with determination but without hurry, certain to catch her prey in the end.

The stranger shook hands with Cathy. "Hi, my name is Helen Joe. Thanks for letting me join you at your table."

Helen Joe? That name was familiar. But the person I associated with that name - although I had never seen any pictures of her - had to be much, much older. And because of this the question whether the Helen Joe I was familiar with might or might not be good looking had never crossed my mind. Was this stranger just a namesake of the Helen Joe?

My doubt must have been visible on my face, because, when the young woman turned to me and shook my hand, she said, "Yes, I am the Helen Joe."

Helen Joe was a controversial figure in the world of literary translators. She specialized in modern classics. But she didn't just translate those books word for word or sentence for sentence. She rewrote them in the target language. She changed the setting and the characters into something which readers in the target region would be familiar with. Her version of 'The Old Man and the Sea' was set in some village in South East Asia and was populated by Vietnamese (or was it Thai?) fishermen.

This is where the controversy arose. While many of her colleagues approved of her approach and praised her work as an authentic reproduction of the original story, a significant minority argued that changing the setting was going beyond the freedom of a translator.

While I was still wrestling with the idea that this beautiful creature was Helen Joe, she had taken a closer look at us and noticed the 'Guest' badges hanging around our necks.

"I see you are guests," Helen said, "does that mean you aren't members of ALT?"

ALT, the Association of Literary Translators, was the organization behind the event which had brought all these people, including us, into the dining room of a hotel in downtown Boston. We were attending the opening dinner of the annual meeting.

Cathy and I aren't translators. I don't think either of us has the patience for such a task. But we have compiled a dictionary of colloquial phrases, expressions and figurative speech which many translators found useful in their work. The secretary of ALT had repeatedly invited us to their annual get-together to give a talk about our dictionary. But as all the meetings so far had taken place in faraway cities we hadn't considered it worth our while to travel so far just for a short talk.

This year, the conference took place just half an hour's drive from our home. We could no longer refuse and had come downtown for the opening dinner. Our talk was scheduled for the second day of the conference.

The conversation at our table was mainly between the two women, with me throwing in the occasional comment. Seeing that Cathy had openly expressed a sexual interest in the young woman, I was surprised that she didn't try to steer the conversation topic towards sex. Or maybe there was this 'female sensitivity' thing going on between the two. Maybe they were aware of the sexual desire without having to talk about it.

Instead, the conversation focused largely on the translation of literary works, in particular Helen Joe's approach to this.

It was a pleasure to listen to this intelligent and attractive woman talk about herself and her work. When she spoke, it seemed that she formed each sentence in her head, then scrutinized it, and only when she was satisfied that it was perfect, did she release it. She spoke English without any foreign accent, but I was able to detected a slight Australian twang in her pronunciation.

Helen Joe had been born in Vietnam, the child of a French father and a Vietnamese mother. She spoke both these languages fluently. While she was still quite young, her parents moved to Australia, where she picked up English as her third language. Later, when she discovered that she had a talent for languages, she also taught herself Mandarin and spent some time in Hong Kong and Shanghai. She translates mainly from her western to her eastern languages.

She explained that Mandarin and many other Asian languages were logographic in nature which added to the challenge of translating texts written in a character-based language.

"The symbols which make up such languages cannot be compared with letters or even words of western languages. The concept of representing objects, actions and ideas is so radically different that only a rewrite will do justice to a work of literature."

She talked about how she had visited Florida and Cuba, the places which had inspired Hemingway when he wrote 'The old Man and the Sea'. Florida had changed a lot since then. At the time the book was written there probably weren't as many retired business executives in the whole country as there are now in Florida alone. But the atmosphere in Cuba was still very much how it was described in the book.

Helen had lived among the fishermen, shared their food and listened to their stories. Then she had moved to Vietnam and looked for a place which could be an Asian counterpart to the Cuban fishing village. There she had once again lived with the simple people, learned about their way of life and their way of expressing themselves. And eventually she had created the Vietnamese version of Hemingway's story.

"I wrote the story in my language the way Hemingway would have written it if he had lived in my country," she said.

She had a plan to do the same thing with 'Cannery Row'. On her way from Australia to the East coast, she had stopped in California and visited Monterey. But instead of Lee Chong's grocery store she had found expensive boutiques. The places where Mack and the boys used to hang out had been turned into tourist attractions. The smell of fish-meal no longer permeated the air.

As I heard her talk about the various projects she had already conducted, and realized that her method of reliving a book before translating it took a lot longer than a traditional translation, I wondered how old she might be - my initial estimate had obviously been too low.

Helen interrupted herself in mid-sentence, turned to me, said, "I'm twenty-seven," and then continued where she had left off. That was already the second time she had answered a question I hadn't even put in words. Was this mind-reading, ESP or some eastern magic?

"The way I translate requires extreme sensitivity, not only to the meaning of each word used, but to the atmosphere the author creates, the images he evokes. I don't translate the words but the atmosphere, the images. It seems that I have developed this sensitivity to the point where I can tell what people want to say without them actually saying it.

"Often, it simply means knowing what that kind of person would want to say in a particular situation. And then there is the non-verbal communication. A change in facial expression, a raised finger, a pause before pronouncing a word, a different intonation - all these things communicate meaning to me. Sometimes I catch myself answering people's questions before they had a chance to ask them."

She'd just done it again! She had just answered my question about mind-reading which I had only formulated in my head but never spoken. This woman was amazing! Cathy had told me she could read me like an open book, but Helen seemed to be able to read the text and the footnotes at the same time.

Looking at the beautiful stranger at our table, I found it difficult to follow the conversation, to concentrate on what Helen was saying. Her almond-shaped eyes combined the image of innocence with the promise of pleasure. Her nose... what can I say about her nose? I guess, all I can say is that it took me some time to notice she had one, so well did it blend into the landscape of her face.

What particularly caught my attention were her lips. They made me think of raspberries. Ripe raspberries - those dark red clusters of tiny globules filled with delicious juice which explode in your mouth when you squeeze them between your tongue and palate. I was convinced that her lips tasted just as delicious.

I wondered whether I would ever get a chance to confirm my theory and taste Helen's lips. I imagined those lips around the shaft of my cock, and felt myself getting hard. Then I remembered her ability to sense what people around her were thinking and checked her face. Would she be offended if she knew what I had been fantasizing about?

Was this my imagination or did Helen actually smile a mischievous smile as she said 'Maybe later'?

"Maybe later this year, I'll travel further south along the Californian coast to see if there is any place left which still resembles the atmosphere in the book," she completed her sentence.

At one point the conversation topic changed from past deeds and future plans to the present moment. Helen Joe talked about what she expected to get out of the conference and Cathy mentioned that we would be back on day two for our little talk. Helen told us that the one thing she wasn't looking forward to was staying at the hotel where the conference was being held, and where we were having dinner right now. She hated this type of big, impersonal complex to the point that she would prefer a simple fisherman's hut without any comfort.

That was our chance. It was as if she had asked us if we wanted everlasting life, good looks and wealth all wrapped into one bundle. Cathy and I almost pushed each other out of the way, each one trying to be the first to offer Helen bed and board in our house.

"We can't offer you the discomfort of a fisherman's hut, but I can assure you that staying with us won't be as impersonal as staying at this hotel," I finally managed to say, after having been interrupted several times by Cathy who was probably trying to say the same thing. I found my statement about a stay with us not being impersonal quite clever. It was my intention to get personal, even physical, with this sensual creature - but she probably knew that already.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push myself onto you. I was just giving vent to one of my niggles. I'll be alright at the hotel. It's only for five nights."

Was she simply going through the motions of refusing politely before accepting, or had she realized how much we expected from her stay with us and tried to wriggle out of it?

We weren't prepared to take no for an answer. We insisted. We told her how pleased we would be if she'd accept our offer. She'd have her own bedroom and bathroom, use of the kitchen if she wanted, and the atmosphere would be much more personal than at the hotel. I thought of offering breakfast in bed, but then decided against it. Cathy promised that we would provide transport to and from the conference.

Helen Joe seemed to be tempted but not completely swayed.

"Say yes, just to please me," Cathy said.

There was an edge to her voice I had never noticed before. She hadn't been joking when she first talked about this mysterious woman. She was seriously turned on by the idea of spending the night under the same roof as Helen. Would the two get it off together and leave me on my own?

"Alright then, it's a deal," Helen finally said.

Cathy showed quite openly how pleased she was by this decision. I don't think she could have been more pleased than I was, but somehow I didn't feel I should show how much I was looking forward to Helen's stay with us.

As soon as we had finished our meal, Helen went to her room to collect her belongings - she hadn't yet had time to unpack anything - and we all got into the car and drove off towards our house.

Cathy and I aren't wealthy. We make enough to cover all our needs, even to pay for a small luxury every now and then, but we couldn't afford the kind of house we live in if it were located in one of the more fashionable parts of town. The neighborhood where we live is considered a bit rough, but we haven't had any reason to complain about this aspect. We expect that with the next economic upswing house-buyers will 'discover' our part of town and restore the houses to their original glory. The area will benefit from the same gentrification process other parts of the town have already undergone.

Our house would probably be called a mansion in any other part of town. It's much too big for just two people, and that's our main excuse for its somewhat neglected appearance. There are no major problems; everything is in perfect working order, but it's quite clear that the house has seen better days.

The main feature which sets this house apart and made us chose this one over the others we looked at is its 'grand staircase'. That's what the salesman called it, and we continue to use this term even though we know it to be a slight exaggeration. It is the first thing one notices after one enters the front door. Everybody who visits us is impressed by this staircase which comes down from the upper floor in an elegant ninety degree sweep.

It really is 'grand'. Maybe not grand enough to imagine Fred Astair and Ginger Rogers come dancing down these stairs - although it's probably old enough to have witnessed those two. I often imagine Marilyn Monroe sauntering down this flight of stairs, singing something about diamonds being a girl's best friend.

Maybe my imagination is influenced by my memory of Cathy coming down there once in one of her sexiest outfits, chirping,

I wanna be loved by you,
just you,
and nobody else but you.

She performed her act so convincingly, she didn't make it to the living room with its comfortable sofa and armchairs. We made love right at the bottom of those stairs.

Sitting in my favorite armchair, I don't have a full view of the staircase and anyone coming down. I see it from the side, looking at the wrought-iron balusters and the polished walnut handrail. Of anyone coming down, I see first the feet only, then the legs, later the body, and eventually the whole person.

I had already enjoyed this show when Cathy returned from showing Helen to her room, making sure she had enough towels, the right kind of pillow and everything else she might need. Now I caught myself wondering what it would look like when Helen came down these stairs to join us for a drink as she had promised.

A little earlier, I had carried Helen's luggage up the stairs, but left the two women on their own to discuss the domestic arrangements. Helen had said she wanted to take a quick bath to freshen up, then she would slip into something more comfortable and meet us downstairs.

Cathy had joined me after coming down the stairs and was sitting on the sofa. We hadn't spoken much since we had arrived at our home. Nervous anticipation was hanging in the air, almost palpably so. Had my fertile imagination got the better of me when I saw Helen smile 'Maybe later' at me? I definitely felt there had been some promise in her look, in her voice.

But I didn't know what promises she had made Cathy, directly or indirectly. Would there be a competition between Cathy and me over who would get to seduce our sexy guest? Couldn't we conquer her as a team? Cathy had given no indication of whether she wanted Helen for herself or whether she would be prepared to share her with me.

The uncertainty was getting to me. I'm a man, for Christ's sake! I can't handle all these subtle hints, all this 'female sensitivity' stuff. I want a woman to come up to me and say, 'Fuck me.' That I can understand. Well, she doesn't actually have to say it, she just has to make it clear that this is what she wants.

My mental torment was brought to an end when I heard a door and then steps approaching the staircase.

The first thing I saw was a foot in a stiletto-heeled shoe. Then another one. I almost stopped breathing. The feet moved down a couple of stairs, revealing perfectly shaped ankles and calves. But the feet didn't come down the stairs in a continuous movement. They seemed to be moving to the rhythm of a song, dancing sideways, back up and then down again, but I couldn't make out which song it was.

The knees appeared, the part of the legs above the knees. I expected a dress or skirt to start, but it didn't. More and more of the legs came into view. Beautiful thighs. Was she naked? She wouldn't come down without a stitch on, would she? I felt disappointment, but also some relief when I saw the bright yellow thong, covering Helen's sex and not much else.

The garment Helen wore on top was cut like a gentlemen's dress shirt, and was black. But the color hardly mattered, because the textile was so transparent, all it did was lend a dark hue to Helen's upper body. It did not conceal her beautiful, firm breasts with the perfect, round areolas and the nipples rising timidly in the middle of each areola. She carried something black with fringes in her right hand. It looked like it was made of leather. 'Maybe a purse, ' I thought.

By this time, I was able to identify the song Helen was moving to, but only because she was lilting the words, albeit slightly modified,

Me for two,
and two for me.

It seemed that the grand staircase had the ability to induce beautiful women to singing old songs in a very sensual way.

I was stunned, unable to say anything. The phrase 'slip into something more comfortable' has been used so often, it's almost become a joke. But this was a situation where it fit perfectly. I looked across to where Cathy was sitting. Her eyes were wide open, taking in the tantalizing image of our guest.

"Would you like to fuck me from behind while I lick your wife?" Helen's voice said into the silence.

I could hear Cathy gasp. I wanted to disappear somewhere between the cushions of my armchair. That was exactly the image which had passed in front of my mind's eye only seconds ago. It had been one of many images, though. Had Helen tuned into my brain waves, and knew exactly what I had been thinking about?

There was no sign that Helen was upset or angry. She turned to Cathy. "Or would you like to whip my ass first, while I suck his cock?"

Cathy winced. "Oh, no! Please forgive me. I didn't mean to suggest... I was just daydreaming, imagining things. I didn't mean to be disrespectful. I wasn't really thinking seriously about it, honest."

Whip her ass, eh? My wife, who had told me categorically that she wasn't into women, was daydreaming about whipping Helen's ass! I started to wonder what other fantasies her mind was capable of - and she had never told me about. Now it was all coming into the open because Helen was able to tap right into the source of Cathy's thoughts.

"Relax, guys," Helen said. "There's nothing wrong with feeling about me the way you do. You're not the first and you won't be the last. It's not your fault that I can sense so clearly what your intentions are, but it makes everything a lot easier. Own up to your desires and let's have some fun!"

Helen hooked both thumbs under the narrow strip of textile which held her thong in place and pushed it down. Once more my eyes couldn't believe what they saw and my mouth refused to close. What a treasure! The lips of her pussy were as inviting as those of her mouth. And there wasn't a single hair to obstruct the view. I didn't know where to look. My eyes wanted to stay glued to this revelation but I was also keen on seeing Cathy's reaction.

Cathy's eyes widened a little more with every move Helen made. Helen, in the meantime, kicked off her shoes and stepped onto the plush carpet. She positioned herself so that both Cathy and I could watch her and see each other at the same time. She opened the buttons of her shirt one by one and then let the textile slip off her shoulders. What a marvelous sight to behold!

Once Helen had removed all her clothes, she knelt right in front of Cathy and pushed Cathy's legs apart. Cathy was dressed for the occasion. Her robe opened easily in the middle. And she wasn't wearing any panties! Had she known that this was going to happen? Was this another case of this 'female sensitivity' thing?

I saw Helen's head move forward and then there was the unmistakable moan as her lips made contact with Cathy's sex. So, I wouldn't be the first one to experience the touch of these magnificent raspberry lips. But I sure wanted to get inside this bare pussy. I wanted it so badly, my cock put a serious strain on my trousers.

Helen lifted her head briefly from Cathy's pussy and turned towards me, still sitting there, dumbstruck, unable to move. "Come on then, caveman! Or aren't you interested in sex? I think you're old enough to undress by yourself. And your cock knows the way." She wiggled her behind invitingly.

It's a miracle I didn't rip my trousers to pieces and all the buttons of my shirt stayed in place. In a flash I was out of my clothes and on the carpet, right behind Helen, ready to poke my cock into her.

Helen had called me 'caveman'. That was kind of a code word between Cathy and me. Cathy called me that to tell me that she wanted a wild fuck, that she wanted me to be rough. How had Helen found out about this? At this point, I had stopped believing in coincidence. I was sure she wanted me to pound my cock into her, hard and fast.

Without stopping what she was doing to Cathy's pussy, Helen lifted her backside and pushed against my approaching cock. I let out a deep sigh as I slipped into her wonderfully tight, moist tunnel. I knew instinctively that this was going to be one of the best fucks of my life.

Cathy had unfastened the loop which was holding her robe together. She had freed her arms from the sleeves and was now reclining on the sofa, completely exposed to our eyes. Cathy has a magnificent body, but it would have been extremely difficult to declare her the winner in a competition with Helen. It was a clear case of a draw, as far as I was concerned. I watched Cathy fondle her breasts while I thrust my cock into Helen, who in turn was licking Cathy's pussy.

My bliss was over far too soon. Within minutes, I had lost control - if I had been in control of myself in the first place. My cock erupted and I deposited my semen deep inside Helen's pussy.

As I lay slumped on the carpet, I watched Helen make love to Cathy. Her tongue plowed Cathy's slit, her lips kissed and sucked Cathy's clit. Then the tongue reappeared, this time thrusting deep into Cathy's love hole. Each new sensation provoked an audible reaction from Cathy.

I had licked Cathy many times during all the years we lived together - eaten her pussy, gone down on her, which ever euphemism you prefer - but she had never reacted with this much enthusiasm to my efforts. Was Helen exceptionally skillful, or was this - I started to hate the term - 'female sensitivity'?

I watched Cathy climax and at the same time shout, "Don't stop! Please!" I saw Helen's head bob up and down in an accelerated rhythm. I saw Cathy lift her bottom off the sofa to bring her pussy closer to Helen's mouth. I saw Cathy's body convulse as another orgasm took her breath away.

I had never seen Cathy abandon herself so completely to her lust, and I envied her for what she was experiencing. I became aware that I was witnessing something special, something extraordinary: the encounter of two exceptionally horny women who seemed to be made for each other.

I had the impression that Helen would have been able to carry on stimulating Cathy for hours and only stopped so that her victim would have some strength left for the next act. Cathy protested only weakly when Helen's mouth moved away from her pussy.

Helen took the bundle she had been carrying in her hand when she came down the stairs and handed it to Cathy. What I had assumed to be a leather purse with fringes turned out to be a miniature whip with five lashes. Helen really meant business when she came down those stairs. She knew that this was going to happen even before she rejoined us!

"Hit me as hard as you can," Helen instructed Cathy as she moved towards me, ready to take my wilted cock into her mouth. "If you want you can also shove the handle into my pussy or rear."

Things had taken a definite turn towards the unreal. Yes, I had read stories about women deriving pleasure from being whipped, but I had always considered these stories the product of over fertile minds, somebody's wet dreams. But the stunning female in front of me who asked to be whipped hard was not a figment of my imagination. If any proof that she was real were needed, then this proof was provided by the sensation her lips produced on my cock.

Cathy followed the instructions to the word. She brought the whip down on Helen's bottom with all her strength. Helen flinched when the lashes hit her backside. It made me wonder why on earth she allowed Cathy to whip her. Surely, the fact that my wife had revealed such a strange desire wasn't enough reason for Helen to agree to be treated this way? Did she actually get some kind of sexual gratification out of this - like the stories would have us believe?

And Cathy? What made her, a woman who abhorred any form of violence, thrash Helen's backside for all she was worth? Was she just following orders? Had she discovered a sadistic streak in her personality? I had to admit that I found it extremely stimulating to watch Cathy stand there, naked, her legs slightly apart, bringing the whip down on Helen's rump like a vengeful warrior.

Helen gasped, she drew in breath when the whip made contact, but didn't let go of my cock which reacted to the skillful treatment it received. I was hard in no time, moaning as Helen's lips moved up and down my shaft. I was ready to shoot my load into her mouth when Helen let go of my cock and got up from her kneeling position.

My disappointment didn't last long. The two women made me lie on my back and Cathy straddled me. God, was she wet! My cock slid inside her all the way in one single stroke. What a wonderful sensation it was to be enveloped by her hot, moist flesh!

Helen also got on top of me. She positioned her pussy right in front of my mouth, expecting me to lick her. I hesitated. I had come inside her pussy not very long ago. Some of my cum was still clinging to her sex and there was probably more of it inside. Should I lick my own cum off her? I had never before done anything that sleazy. What would Cathy think of me?

I realized that Cathy wasn't in the least concerned about what I thought of her. She was riding my cock in pursuit of her own pleasure. "What the heck?" I thought, as I plunged my tongue into Helen's hairless slit.

The evening passed without me getting a chance to taste those raspberry lips. Yes, I had felt them on my cock, they had pleasured Cathy's pussy, but I still didn't know what they tasted like. There were other things we didn't have time for. I would have liked to explore Helen's marvelous body, detail for detail with my hands and mouth. I had a chance to play with her breasts when I fucked her from behind, but that chance passed all too rapidly. I had high hopes that there would be further opportunities during Helen's stay with us.

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