Looking Back Ch. 07

Amateur

In Chapter one our heroine, Kate, a successful businesswoman turning 60, has asked herself a troubling question. Is she a slut? Thus began a series of chapters in which she describes to her husband Henry (her fourth husband) her life beginning with her late teen years and her sexual activities at each stage. The portion in italics in each story is her recollection of some memorable sexual experience from her past. In this chapter Kate, now in her mid-20s, and her friend Cherie attend an orgy at Kate’s aunt’s home in San Francisco.

*****

I didn’t tell Henry any more about my past love life during our stay in New York. We were only there for a couple of additional days, and we both had things to do besides tell dirty stories and screw (although we somehow squeezed a bit more of the latter into our busy schedule). The main reason I didn’t tell him any more was I hadn’t decided which of my experiences should be next. I had concluded early on in the process that I was going to have to pick my stories selectively or I would have trouble getting past my college years. So much great sex; so little time to recall it all.

I was fixing breakfast on a dreary foggy day (typical of a San Francisco summer) a week or so later when next I heard from Henry.

“Hello lover,” he said when I answered the phone.

Recognizing his voice I said, “Oh, I’m so glad you called. It’s all gray and dreary here. You’re just what I need to brighten up my day.”

“At your service, my dear. It’s warm and sunny here. The sun is bright, the waves are sparkling, the temperature is, oh, I would say about 75 on your scale.”

“Mmmm. How nice.”

“The only thing that could make life better is if you were here. I’m sitting in a café overlooking a beautiful beach, having a late afternoon snack. The Rosé is chilled perfectly, and the cold shrimp plate is succulent. These people don’t do dinner until 10:00 o’clock at the earliest. I’ll starve if I don’t get something to eat before then.”

“I wish I were there. I’d help you finish off the Rosé, and then drag you off to bed and . . . Uhh, where are you are by the way? I thought you were staying in London this week. That doesn’t sound like London.”

“No, it doesn’t, does it? I can tell you it has almost nothing in common with the damp, gray London I left on an early flight this morning. I’m in Barcelona actually. Well, in a little town up the Costa Brava from Barcelona really. Got a day’s business to do here and then it’s back to dreary old London.

“Can I ask what you are doing in a lovely little town on the Costa Brava, besides sipping nicely chilled Rosé and nibbling shrimp?”

“Sorry dear, that’s need-to-know only.”

“Hmm, well either there’s a woman involved, or it’s more of your spy work.”

“Spy work? You know I’m not a spy darling. I just collect up odd bits of information from time to time, which Her Majesty’s government is either most appreciative of, or bored to death with. Spies work for agencies with names like MI6, KGB, or CIA or other such organizations. I wouldn’t dream of actually being employed by one of those organizations. I freelance, and when I find something of interest I pass it along, and the masters can sometimes be quite appreciative. Basically, I’m retired, and I like to travel and meet interesting people.”

“Oh, and if there was a woman involved,” he continued, “I mean involved in the way you meant with your question, you know I would tell you all about her.”

“Yes, I’m sure you would, unless of course you were collecting your ‘tidbits’ as pillow talk.”

“Oh, you’re so suspicious. Tsk, tsk. I’m just down here to meet a man about a dog—so to speak. He is due in from France, which is just a few miles away, in time to meet me for a typical middle of the night Spanish dinner. Apparently he didn’t want to meet in France. Curious. Dinner here will be nice, but dinner in Paris would have been oh so very much nicer.”

“But I’m talking too much. Enough about me. I want to know more about you. When we were in New York last year you told me that delightfully nasty tale about the woodworking chap you seduced on the way to deliver him to a book signing. Anderson—that was his name, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was Anderson, and he was a marvelous fuck, but pretty much a one night stand, if you recall.”

“Yes, yes. I recall that, but here is what I want to know. At some point you said you were going to tell me about the ‘Anderson twins,’ so what I want to know is about your relationship with Mr. Anderson’s twin brother. Did you have a fling with him, too?”

“Ah, the other Mr. Anderson. Would you believe me if I said I didn’t screw him?”

“Of course I would, but I would be very surprised you didn’t have sex with him, given how handsome his twin was. And, you said he was very important. I have trouble conceiving of an important man bursa escort in your life that you didn’t have sex with, other than perhaps your father.”

I laughed. “Oh, the other Anderson was important, and no I didn’t have sex with him. His name was Kyle Anderson, and he didn’t turn up in my life for several years after my afternoon and evening with his brother Lars. When I met Lars, Kyle was a Navy pilot on a carrier someplace in the China Sea, flying F-4s off into places that no one wanted to admit they had sent him.”

“Several years later I had progressed up to the point where I was a junior editor, working with new and minor authors, nothing major you understand, just whatever the boss gave me to work on. It was better than making copies and getting coffee, but hardly glamorous. Then one day the receptionist called and told me there was a Mr. Anderson in the lobby to see me. I walked out front and there was Lars, only, of course it wasn’t Lars, it was Kyle, but I couldn’t tell.”

“Once I unwrapped myself from around his neck, and Kyle managed to convince me he wasn’t Lars, I learned that he had been discharged from the Navy and had written a book that he wanted me, on his brother’s recommendation, to shepherd through the publication process. Now, we had a process for evaluating new books, and although I did some of the reading, someone senior to me usually made the reading assignments and certainly made the decisions about what we would publish. I decided to ignore the process and agreed to read his manuscript. I figured that if Kyle was anything like his brother Lars, I needed to get to know him better, much better.”

“Two days later I was convinced I had a hot property. I took it to the West Coast Managing Editor and, after he chewed me out for not following procedure, he agreed to read it. A couple of weeks later he walked into my cubicle and wanted to know how to find the author. He was ready to publish the book and, by the way, he wanted me to edit it. Long story short, Kyle published eight novels through our shop, all of which were best sellers and all of which I edited. He was a huge boost for my career.”

“And you didn’t sleep with him? I thought you slept with all of your authors, even the women, or at least most of them.”

“I tried . . . but he was gay, and there was no converting him, even to bi.”

“Ah, your great success on one side of your life was a failure on the other.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right, but Kyle and I became great friends in spite of my frustration with his sexual orientation. I would have published more of his work, but he died of AIDs in the early 90s.”

“Sad. But I didn’t call you to dredge up old tales of death and failure. I’ve got several hours to kill before my dinner appointment, so tell me a cheery story, preferably involving some really nasty sex.”

I laughed at him. “I love you,” I said. “Sure, I’ll tell you a really nasty story. That’s the best request I’ve had this week.”

How about one about your second husband—say, maybe the first time you had sex with him?”

“Hmm, I guess I never have told you how I met him.”

No, you didn’t, come to think of it. How did you meet him? This was the guy with money, right?

“No, the guy with money was my third husband. I met him at an orgy—my very first orgy at that. Actually, that is a much better story than telling you about my second husband. Let me tell you about the orgy where I met my third husband.”

“Wait, what about your trysts with the Professor and his wife?”

“Oh, that was just group sex, and a very small group at that. Not even close to a full-blown orgy. The orgy I’m talking about was a party involving twenty or thirty very horny people at my aunt’s house in Pacific Heights. That’s where I first met the man who would become my third husband, but, and here’s the odd part, I didn’t see him again after that night for another . . . oh twenty years or so.”

“I can’t wait to hear about this.”

Well I had been working at Robards for several years. My first husband and the marriage were long gone, and I wasn’t particularly attached to anyone. I had a friend from the office, Cherie, who I used to have a drink with after work most nights that I was in town. Okay, sometimes it was more than one drink.

It was a Friday evening in late October, and Cherie and I working on our second or third cocktail, when she asked if I had plans for the weekend.

“Well, I’m invited to a Halloween party tomorrow night, but I don’t know if I want to go.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I don’t know these people very well, and I don’t have anyone to go with me. I mean, I know the hostess. She’s my aunt. But I doubt if I will have met anyone else she’s invited.”

“I’ll go with you. Always love a party. Is it a costume party? Will they object if I come with you even though I wasn’t bursa escort bayan invited?”

“No, this is a group that isn’t that fussy about that sort of thing, and yes, it’s a costume party.”

“Oh, fun. What shall we wear?”

“I don’t know,” I responded almost whining. “I can never decide what to wear to a costume party.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” respond Cherie. We were both sitting with a glum look, like we had lost our best friend. Then I had an inspiration.

“I know!” I said, drawing an inspiration from a couple of working girls leaning against the bar. “We could go as hookers,” nodding my head as I spoke towards the two hookers leaning on the bar.

Cherie broke out laughing at the idea, and we spent the next couple of hours shopping for skanky clothes for the party. I wound up with a really short, tight skirt, a stretchy pullover top that left nothing about my boobs to the imagination, especially since I skipped the detail of a bra, and some killer high heels. Cherie’s costume was along the same lines—just different colors.

The next evening as I got into Cherie’s car, she was feeling a little insecure about our somewhat over-the-top hooker costumes. “Are there likely to be people at this party who might be offended by our costumes?” she asked.

I laughed. “Not this group,” I said. “We may be overdressed. In fact, there’s a good chance that most of them will be naked before the evening is half over.”

“You didn’t tell me we were going to an orgy!”

“Well, the invitation didn’t say it was going to be an orgy, but if these people are typical of my aunt’s friends, they can turn a Bar Mitzvah into an orgy.”

“Really? I’ve never been to an orgy before.”

“Well, this could be your night. I’ve never been to one either.”

She thought for a minute and apparently decided she liked the idea. “Good thing I decided to skip the bra and panties for this evening.”

“Oh Cherie, you’re going to fit right in with this group.”

The party was in my aunt’s big house on Green Street in Pacific Heights. They even had valet parking. We just drove up, got out of the car, exchanged the keys for a tag, and walked up the steps.

As I got out of the car, I made sure my very short skirt was pushed up on my hips and my legs spread so the car park guy could get a good view of my pussy (Like Cherie, I had skipped my bra and panties for the evening).

“Did you flash him?” Cherie asked me as we were walking up the stairs.

“Yes.”

“You’re so naughty.”

“Well, I’m just trying to get in character for my costume.”

“By the way,” she continued. “Who do you know who can afford to live up here?”

“Oh, it’s my Aunt Chloe. She inherited a fortune from her first husband. I’ll introduce you, but be careful of her. She’ll have you out of your clothes and in bed in a New York minute.”

“I can think of worse fates,” she said. Her response made me think of Halili.

“Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

We rang the doorbell and were admitted to the house by a guy in a tux, which was not a costume for him. He was a part of the help.

He led us into a room full of people in every variety of costume you can imagine. They were all broken up in the usual groups of two to five people engaged in cocktail party chit-chat. I noticed two things that didn’t quite match my image of a Pacific Heights cocktail party. First, there was a strong aroma of marijuana. Second, quite a few of the women were wearing see-through tops or other garments (or non-garments) that prominently displayed their tits. I also noticed that there was a fair bit of fondling going on. It was kind of non-discriminatory fondling. Men’s hands on women’s asses or tits, women’s hands on men’s asses or the fronts of their trousers. Men on men, women on women, or any other combination anyone could dream up. I can’t say there was an aroma of sex in the air. It was more like a vibration.

“Oh I think I’m going to like this party,” Cherie said as we surveyed the room.

“I told you, you would fit right in. Lets find my aunt.”

“Can we get a drink on the way?” she asked.

“Of course. There’s the bar over there. Follow me.”

As we tottered across the room on our hooker high heels, both men and women tore their attention away from whomever they were conversing with (or fondling) to survey us as we passed. At least two men lightly fondled my ass as we passed, and one woman, dressed in motorcycle leathers that were open to the waist, exposing most of her breasts, stared straight at me and licked her lips as though she couldn’t wait to get that tongue on the lips beneath my short skirt.

We got our drinks from the bartender and turned, leaning against the bar, to survey the crowd again.

“This is like a predators’ ball,” I said. “I’ve never seen this escort bursa many horny people in one room since I quit going to college fraternity parties.”

Cherie laughed. “Yes, it appears to be quite the social circle your aunt runs in.”

I laughed, “My mother won’t even come to her parties, and she would have a fit if she knew I was here. That’s odd, really, because Mom is hardly a saint. Ever since Dad left there has been a parade of men flowing through her life.”

“Maybe she just doesn’t want to be this public about it,” Cherie speculated.

“Whatever, let’s go find Aunt Chloe and the source of that delicious marijuana smell.”

As we nursed our drinks, we wandered out of the main room, down a long hall, and into a kitchen. In the kitchen we found a tall silver-haired man screwing a young woman in a maid’s outfit. She was was leaning forward over a kitchen counter, her short black dress pushed atop her hips and her tits hanging out of the top of the outfit. She was groaning softly as he drove his cock into her cunt repeatedly.

“Uncle Charles!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were back in town.” Uncle Charles was my Aunt Chloe’s sometimes husband. I mean he was probably always her legal husband, but he was only around periodically, and the whole family regarded him as a libertine. Given his current posture, I had to say the characterization was an accurate one.

Uncle Charles looked over his shoulder at us without altering his pace as he fucked the girl in the maid’s outfit.

“Oh, Kate. So good to see you. Hang on for just a moment while I finish something here.” He began banging the young woman with as much energy as he could muster and she, obviously enjoying the increase in intensity, became much louder.

“Oh fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh yes, that’s it! Yes! Fuck my cunt! Oh this is so fucking good!”

Watching Uncle Charles ram his cock in and out of this young lady was incredibly erotic to me. I could feel my pussy starting to weep, and I badly wanted to reach under my dress and play with it.

“Rub your clitty, little girl,” he said to the maid as he grabbed one of her tits and began to maul it. The maid, still groaning and crying from the fucking she was getting, reached around with one arm, the other continuing to hold herself up on the kitchen counter, and began to rub her clit. After only a moment of this she screamed as her climax took her and then collapsed on the counter. Charles slowly withdrew his still rigid cock and then leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “Oh you were wonderful as always darling. Please cleanup and go serve some canapés, and you know mum’s the word with the missus.”

He looked at me over his shoulder with a devilish smile and said, “Chloe gets so uptight about me fucking the help.” Then he turned and strode across the kitchen to us, his still engorged and erect cock bobbing as he came. He looked to be perhaps in his late fifties or maybe sixty, but in good physical condition and devilishly handsome.

“Kate, my darling,” he said in a booming voice as he wrapped his arms around me, smashing his glistening erection against my belly as he hugged me. I could feel his still hard prick sandwiched against my belly and he smelled of sex, alcohol, and marijuana, all in one delicious mélange of sinful aromas. Fuck, I was getting horny. Down girl, I told myself. He’s your uncle.

“Let me look at you,” he said pulling back. “What has it been, ten years since I last saw you? My you have grown. Where did these come from,” he said as he lifted each of my boobs in a hand.

“Remember, you bought me a boob job on my 18th birthday,” I said. “Nice aren’t they?”

“Oh yes, I remember. These are Doctor Howard’s work aren’t they? I can always recognize his style. God yes, I remember now. I thought your mother was going to kill me for buying her daughter a boob job for her birthday.”

I didn’t tell him that the boobs were all mine and all natural. I had used his money for college tuition since my boobs had seemed perfectly adequate to me and to the guys I was screwing when I turned eighteen. The Pool Boy certainly hadn’t complained.

Then he turned and looked at Cherie. “And who is this lovely lass you have brought with you?” Without waiting for a response he stepped forward and hugged her as he had me. Then he pulled back, both hands still on her shoulders and stared at her tits. He pulled his hands down from her shoulders and carefully massaged her tits through the light-weight knit top she was wearing. “Oh yes, these are marvelous,” he said, “and all natural if I’m not mistaken.” He continued to massage her tits. “Yes, just lovely. Just like Ingrid Bergman.” What BS. I knew for a fact that Cherie’s tits were mostly silicone.

“Cherie, you’ll have to excuse my Uncle Charles. He is a plastic surgeon, and for him boobs are a matter of professional interest.” Just as I said that he pinched both of her already erect nipples through the thin material of the top. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she groaned as he held her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

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