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.

My fantasizing about having not one, but two, well-hung guys was somewhat amusing. For one thing, I tend to be rather tight and have usually been uncomfortable with big dicks (defined as anything longer than six inches or too fat to close my fingers around). There have been a couple of exceptions, the most notable one being he of the "mercy fuck." Jack was positively huge - something like nine inches long and much too thick for me to close my fingers around. But Jack, unlike a lot of well-hung men, was sensitive to my needs and responses and positively loved foreplay. By the time he was wedging his big dick into me, I was aching for it. And he usually took his time, too, which meant that when he did push that last inch home, I could just... barely... take it.

Find two guys like Jack? I figured the odds were slim to none. And would I really want to be with more than one at once? Well, sure - if they could be like they were in the fantasy.

I shook myself from my daydreaming. Quickly and efficiently, I soaped and rinsed and climbed out of the tub. I opened the drain and as the water swirled away, I looked for the shower to rinse any residue away.

What I found was a hand-held stainless steel thing, about eight inches long and shaped for all the world like one of those cheap plastic vibrators. I figured out the shower controls and turned it on. There were an infinite range of water jets available, from pulse - like an ejaculating penis - to-spew-like-a-hose, with another setting for a needle-like shower spray.

This, I thought, would be a hell of a lot of fun for masturbating and douching at the same time. And again, I wondered at my brother's sexuality.

I rinsed the tub, dried and pulled on the only robe handy, a long terrycloth velour job that felt all snuggly and cozy. The waist was much too high for me, of course - Pete is almost six-feet-two - so I pulled the sash from the loops and refastened it higher, around my real waist. I automatically tied it tight enough for my 20-inch waist. Didja hear me? I said 20-INCH WAIST.

Yes, I am proud of it. I have always watched my diet and worked hard at the gym or health club, no matter how busy I am or how tired. My face is okay, but I'm never going to be on the cover of Mirabella. I know my figure is my best asset, and I work on keeping that asset in shape. With 33-inch hips, a 20-inch waist and wearing (only optionally!) a 34-c bra, I am capable of dressing to kill. And I haven't even mentioned that I have rather gorgeous legs, if I say so myself.

I checked myself in the mirror and discovered that posing carelessly made the robe part enough to give a rather good view of most of one strange-nippled tit.

Just as I was laying out the clothes I planned to wear, I heard a key turn in the lock and then the door opened. Pete.

"Hey, Jan-Jan?" he called softly, the name he'd always used on me when I was a little kid.

"Petey!" I flung myself at him impulsively and hugged him close and gave him a big wet smackeroo. He stiffened, then softened and gently let me to the floor. We stood like that for a few moments, him with his arms around my shoulders and me with my arms around the wet raincoat he was wearing, upon which he remarked momentarily.

I looked up at him and grinned. There were a few laugh-lines around the eyes and some weariness in the set of his lips, but it was unmistakably Pete, and he looked good, if sad.

"I'm sorry I couldn't meet you myself," he said.

"How's your friend?"

"Pretty broken up."

"Sudden?"

Pete took off his raincoat and hung it in the tub to drip dry. "Not at all. Everyone knew it was coming."

He came out of the bathroom and saw my curiosity. "AIDS-Related Complex." He slipped out of his wet shoes, bending easily at the waist in his jeans and sweater. "We were all hoping the AZT would keep Jeff going until something could be done, but - " He straightened. "Part of Marty's shock, I think, is that he hadn't been dealing with the reality, and this is about as real as it gets."

"And Marty - ?"

"Oh, sure - he has the virus, too."

I had to ask. "Anyone else?"

He frowned, studying my face. I'd never realized how pale and gray his eyes were.

Then: "Oh, me! No, no, I tested nega - " Then it really hit him. "Jan-Jan, I haven't gone gay, if that's what you're wondering. Not even bi." He gave me the once-over. "And if you don't close that robe, you're going to inspire vivid proof and make this a very uncomfortable visit."

I giggled. Mind you - I do not giggle. I laugh. I chortle. I chuckle. I even guffaw (especially at a good lawyer joke), but I do not giggle.

But when my older brother told me I was turning him on, I giggled.

"Are you hungry?"

Now that he asked, I realized I was famished and said so.

"Give me 10 minutes to wash up and change," he said, "and we can go for any food you like. Preference?"

Even though we hadn't spent more than 30 hours, total, in each other's presence in the last four years, I could read him like a book. The enthusiasm was forced, the energy was faked. He was tired and drained. A long day that ended with a few hours spent consoling a friend who'd just lost a lover - yes, that'll take the starch out of you. And to tell the truth, I didn't feel like bouncing around in the rotten weather, either.

"Well?"

"My preference is 'delivered,'" I said. "As in, 'Please deliver to this address.'"

"Oh, c'mon. Are you trying to tell me that after all the traveling to get here, you just want to sit around and vegetate?"

"Tonight I do."

He shrugged, and I realized that beneath the loose sweater, my brother had one serious set of shoulders. "Suits me. Hold on a min'." He stepped into the kitchenette (note the diminutive). I heard a drawer open and close and paper rustling. He returned and handed me about a dozen sheaves. "These all deliver."

I looked through them: Four flavors of Chinese (including Comidas Cubanos Y Chinese), Indonesian, Vietnamese, Indian, Italian, Filipino, Burgers, Pizza - Armenian???

"Uh, Chinese."

"Mandarin, Szechuan, Cantonese - "

"Szechuan."

"Good deal. What'll it be?"

"Oh, you surprise me while I change."

Pete went to the phone while I took my new selection of evening clothes - a flannel nightgown and a dressing robe - into the bathroom. When I reappeared, Pete was stacking some kindling and logs in the fireplace.

We opened a bottle of red wine and started sipping it while he started the fire and showed me how to operate his home entertainment conglomeroid. He told me to pick any music I liked, as long as it wasn't disco or LITE-FM. I toured the dial until I heard something vaguely familiar.

"How's this?'

"Great! Sounds like Alan Stivell with his Celtic harp."

It turned out that we had largely the same tastes in music, though not in reading. I usually avoided fiction, but Pete devoured it, especially mysteries. Also, I loved watching football (a prerequisite for admission at Ann Arbor), while he deplored it; he was a hockey and baseball fan.

We talked a little about his work and my planned career and pretty soon were well into a fairly intense discussion. Well, OK - an argument. I had taken a Masters in Social Work because I wanted to help people. Pete felt that by manipulating his portfolios to produce wealth, he'd also be doing more good for more people. I was about to point out that my career was going to be helping the "less" - the ones that fell into the cracks in his system - when the doorbell rang.

I have never seen so much Chinese food in my life. Two shopping bags.

"What did you order - company?"

Pete laughed. "One of everything, The leftovers go in the refrigerator and get microwaved for snacks as wished." He was madly opening containers as he spoke. The room was filled with eau d'szechuan. I was drooling.

"I'll get plates and forks - "

"You'll do no such thing. There are traditions to observe. In New York, when you eat takeout, you eat it out of the containers and you eat it with the crummy little chopsticks they send."

"I don't know how to use them. I'll starve!"

"I'll teach you," he promised and opened another bottle of wine. I hadn't realized we'd killed the first bottle already.

We sat indian-fashion in front of the fire, surrounded by opened containers of Chinese food. The wind moaned outside, and sleet beat at the windows, and we continued our argument until we agreed to disagree. I asked him how his love life was.

"Virtually nonexistent."

I stared at him in surprise. He'd been keeping steady company with a young woman, a lawyer, for a couple of years. I'd half-expected them to get engaged at any moment. "But what about, uh, Elaine?"

"Emmy," he corrected. He reached into the pocket of his cardigan and withdrew a pipe and a pouch. "Well, we got along fine in every way but one, but..." He shrugged and began packing the pipe. "That one managed to ruin everything else."

"I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really. Can't do anything about it, anyway." He lit his pipe, puffing slowly.

I'd never met her, but I'd seen her picture and heard the love in his voice when he spoke of her. Emmy was of Japanese descent, and Emmy was a knockout. Classy. sexy and exotic, all wrapped up in one. And from what he'd said of her, she was smart, sweet and tough. There'd never been a hint of any problem.

But if he didn't want to talk about it, I figured -

"And how about you, Jan-Jan. How's your love life?"

"Between working five hours a day, studying five hours a day and cramming two semesters' credits into one - "

"What love life?"

We laughed.

"I was kind of hoping to meet some nice guys here," I hinted real subtle-like.

"Good luck."

"Hey!' I smacked him on the arm. It was like smacking a side of beef. "I was counting on my big brother to help me out!"

"If you weren't my sister, I would." He leered suggestively. "As it is, though, I wouldn't trust my friends with you, and I wouldn't trust anyone but a friend with you."

"What's the matter with your friends?"

"They're either gay or married - some are both - or in the same business I am."

"Don't you have any eligible friends who aren't in one of those gloops - groups?" The wine was hitting me, now - hard.

"Not unless you're into women."

"Not regularly," I blurted, then felt my face redden.

"Oh-hooooo..." He refilled my glass. "Give."

I let him - and the wine - coax it out of me. About Tina making her gentle pass in the shower. About impulsively encouraging her. About discovering I could really enjoy being with a woman. About discovering I did not enjoy having a possessive woman as a lover any more than I liked a possessive man.

"Well, stud, did that turn you on?"

He whistled. "Jan, I wasn't horny before - just deprived - but now I'm horny."

I looked down at his lap. "Hey, Petey, is that a tree in your pocket or do you like the show-and-tell?"

He blushed - something I'd never have imagined possible - and made a great show of closing up the containers containing uneaten food. "We better put these away before they spoil."

I struggled unsteadily to my feet and carried a few cartons to the kitchenette. While he stored them, I went for more. As I bent, I lost my balance and tumbled. I wasn't hurt, of course, but Pete was right there checking me. As soon as he was sure I was OK, he turned away and hurried back to the kitchen.

I realized then that in falling, my robe had opened and my tits were clearly visible through the thin flannel nightgown - especially my nipples. They were as swollen and hard as that lump of wood he had in his pants.

Pete opened the pullout for me and gave me dibs on the bathroom. When I emerged, he gave me a little peck on the cheek and disappeared into his home office, a cup of hot herb tea in one hand. I toppled into the pullout and fell asleep fast...

... and wet.

I had incredibly erotic dreams. Two well-hung studs, then a horse-hung man and a gorgeous woman, both nibbling my tits and fingering my pussy. I awoke to find one hand pinching my nipple and the other between my thighs.

I also had a full bladder.

I struggled up out of the bed. The rain had stopped and the low clouds reflected the city light in through the french doors, giving sufficient illumination to find my way to the bathroom. I did my business and noticed the door to Pete's bedroom was open, just a crack. I looked through. He was sprawled naked on his belly, and even in the dim light I could see the silhouette of his muscular back and gorgeous buns.

That Emmy is a goddam fool, I thought, and went back to my pullout and collapsed.

I sat up suddenly, wide awake and not knowing why, and abruptly I regretted sitting up suddenly. My stomach and head told me to regret it. I had to put both feet on the floor to stop the room's rocking. It took me about 30 seconds to orient and place myself. Right - Pete's place.

I had the place to myself. The clock in the kitchenette said it was almost noon. I couldn't believe how long I'd slept. Pete had left a note on the refrigerator door on a piece of memo paper bearing the legend, "DON'T TELL ME WHAT KIND OF DAY TO HAVE!"

Want to double for dinner with Adele and her brother, Martin (Adele says he's a "hunk")? Call me at office before five and let me know.

Was it really necessary for him to mention food?

I found the coffee and figured out how to operate his Nuclear-Powered Faster-Than-Light coffee pot. While I waited for Salvation to brew, I forced myself to drink some orange juice and went into the bathroom to Take Care of Business. The hot shower helped some. The Excedrin helped more.

Wearing Pete's robe, I padded into the kitchen and poured some of the salvation and sipped it as it was - scalding and black. With both trembling hands I carried the mug into the living room and sat down to light a cigarette and recover.

I kept flashing on Pete's naked butt in the bed and wondered if he and this "Adele" were becoming an item, or just what kind of relationship they had.

The coffee began to work, and I decided that the vital signs were stabilizing enough to dress and clean up my pullout bed. The clouds outside were the color of a clam's shell, threatening snow. I found the remote control for the TV, but not the set, itself. Experimentally, I pressed the ON button. In the corner of the room, something hummed and a five-foot projection screen extruded itself down from the ceiling. The projector itself was under the coffee table. CNN came to life and a low murmur came from the stereo speakers. I fingered the volume control and found the Weather Channel. Yes, there was a Winter Weather advisory for later in the day. Dress warm, I told myself. I switched back to CNN and made my bed and exchanged my brother's robe for a pair of Chic jeans and a beige cashmere sweater over a sheer bra. CNN was reporting on the latest rumor of a hostage release in Beirut.

I poured another cup of coffee and examined my brother's home entertainment section. Stereo receiver, cassette deck, CD player, VCR and some tapes. What tapes did my brother own? Classic detective fare, for the most part: "Maltese Falcon"; "The Big Sleep"; the original and remakes of "Farewell, My Lovely." And some that surprised me: "Amerika"; "Airplane"; "V"; "Say Amen, Somebody."

There was a cabinet door. I opened it. Inside were more tapes.

"Aha!"

Yes, I'd found my brother's porn collection. I was a little disappointed. Don't get me wrong - I'm not a prude, by any stretch of the imagination (or anything else). It's just that the few porn films I'd seen were boring, unimaginative and tasteless. The women always love to have the men cum on them rather than in them and inevitably love to lick up the cum. And they're always saying things like, "Oh, fuck me, baby!" I was a little disappointed that Pete bothered to buy low-grade anything.

Still, I was curious about his taste. I didn't recognize any of the titles, so I picked one at random and shoved it into the VCR. The all- in-one remote control - a Zenith, I think - took charge and there was a flash of gray on the big screen, the usual stupid music and titles and then the action began - immediately.

A blonde entered an apartment. She took off her coat and entered the bedroom, where a redhead was sleeping. They kissed. Soon they were making out, then they got down to some serious sex. I liked it when they rubbed their nipples together. I was fascinated by the blonde's nipples. Her breasts were firm, not overly large - and sported nipples that must have been almost an inch long. The redhead paid plenty of attention to them, too. It even looked like she was chewing on them.

I started rubbing my thighs together. By the time the two women had arranged themselves in the classic sixty-nine, I was pretty wet and knew I'd have to change my panties. I stood and stripped off my jeans and panties, then hit PAUSE to get a towel before I sat again on the leather sectional.

When I let the action resume, I had one hand between my legs, playing with myself. The camera work was very good and crisp, and the only sounds were those made by the two juicy women. They were either very good actresses or they were really getting into it, especially the redhead, who was on top.

When the blonde got a finger into her, the redhead went nuts. When I got a finger in me, I felt pretty decent, myself. When the redhead got a second finger, she started groaning. So did I. At the third finger, she stopped her licking and just gasped for more. I couldn't get a third finger into me, because I'm too tight, but I gasped anyhow. The blonde worked a fourth finger into the redhead and jammed in all four right to the knuckles. The redhead's pretty pussy was really stretched, and she was digging it, fucking up and down on the blonde's fingers. Then the blonde folded her thumb into her palm and started trying to work the whole thing in.

No way, I thought. The redhead was slim and her cunt was already full. It would surely tear her apart. It had to be hurting. Was Pete into S&M?

Then I saw the redhead kneel up straight and force herself down, impaling herself on the blonde's hand. I watched the woman's entire hand sink into the little pussy right to the wrist. The redhead started rolling and bobbing her hips, her smooth, firm ass working wildly. She was grabbing and pinching her own tits as she screamed and came, her hips bucking madly.

She finally fell to one side, and when the blonde pulled her hand out of her, the redhead's widespread legs jerked out straight and she shook and screamed again. Then she grabbed the blonde's hand and kissed it, licked it wildly, and rubbed it all over her breasts.

At about which time, I came, too.

The pair on the screen collapsed into a warm, cuddly embrace, which I envied. The screen faded and switched to a new scene. The blonde and a man entered and sat on a couch. They started making out. Before long, her clothes were open and so were his pants. He was sucking those fabulous nipples and feeling her cunt. She pushed him back and bent to lick and suck the biggest cock I've ever seen. She couldn't get much of it in her mouth, but what she did get in there, she took good care of. Her hand jerked on his thick shaft. I was about to hit fast- forward when the couple froze at the sound of a key in their door. In walked the redhead. Look of horror and apology. After explaining that her date was a real asshole and she'd dumped him, she went into the bedroom. No problem, she was assured.