Did you miss Check and Mate Part One? Check it out here.
Dawson turned their way. “Liv, I’m as ready for you as I’ll ever be.” Gail did an arena-style “Whoo!” at the facile double entendre, and Daw winked at her affectionately.
With a few drinks in her, Livia took more time over each move; but the moves were as good as ever, once they emerged. And although there was still no music playing, Livia hummed to herself each time she scrutinized the board.
Gail was digging the mellowness that had slowly displaced Livia’s characteristic angularity of attitude. She wondered if Livia’s pussy lips were warm and wet. No—she wondered how warm and wet they were. Gail tittered at her own train of thought, and everyone looked up at her for a second.
No two chess games, Gail reflected, were ever the same. What had Livia said? It is as rich with ambiguity and possibility as human endeavor. Gail had teased her for sounding pretentious, but the observation returned now, with more weight. Sitting here in a room with the familiar man she fucked every night, and a half-strange man she was scheduled to fuck tonight . . . and an increasingly alluring woman who . . . well, Gail felt as if she were joyfully afloat on a sea of ambiguity. And possibility. And, yeah, vodka.
She sucked on her olive.
“Fuck!” Dawson said, softening the expletive with laughter. He was a gracious loser, even a jolly one.
Livia reached across the board and touched his hand. “Don’t despair. I haven’t finished you off yet.”
“Ha—yet is right. I think we both know where this game is headed. Anyway, I’m not despairing. I’m admiring.”
“Thank you,” said Livia.
Daw took a swig of his drink. “You’re a top-notch player. Too pro for these ’burbs.”
“Thank you again, Dawson.”
“And, in a little while, I’m going to lick your pussy till you scream.”
“Thank you, um . . . in advance?”
“I love having friends over,” Clement said to Gail.
She petted his chest, tentatively but purposefully. “You’re a good host.”
He had a clean, minty kiss. Gail remembered hearing him brush his teeth after they’d eaten.
“You’re a good guest,” Clement answered, mouth to mouth.
A luscious giggle from the vicinity of the chess game distracted them. Beneath the intellectual contest on the coffee table, Dawson and Livia were evidently playing a parallel game of footsie.
“Checkmate,” said the giggly voice.
“Um-hmm,” Dawson growled agreeably.
Clement’s deft fingers were caressing Gail’s right breast now, through the delicate interface of her silk top. She fumbled with her own buttons to clear the way for him.
“Do you wanna play chess with me?” he asked.
“Not if it means losing that hand from inside my blouse.”
He kissed her again, more passionately this time, burning through the toothpaste. Out of the corner of one languidly open eye, Gail saw Livia brush the remaining chess pieces to one side. She sat at the edge of the board for Daw, holding her peasant skirt up at the knees as if she were about to go wading or stomp some grapes. Daw unzipped his jeans, then grasped Liv by her feet. He began kissing her cherry-painted toenails.
Gail moved a hand into her own crotch. An instant later, Clement’s hand met hers there.
God, that hand felt good. The man had finesse; and, in order to take full advantage of his light touch, Gail removed her own hand and just let herself go, grinding against Clement’s palm.
Clement moved his face down to the level of Gail’s nipples, and while he suckled her she turned her head to get a better view of the other couple. She saw that Livia’s feet were trembling as Dawson fondled her ankles.
Need had been building in Gail’s miniskirt all evening. As Clement made a furrow in her panties and titillated the periphery of her clit, crimson sparks were already beginning to flash in her head.
“You’re going to make me come,” she panted, and Clement chuckled seductively.
These two words—and his direct pressure on her button as he spoke them—put her over the edge. She reeled with wetness and pleasure and electricity. From far, far away, she heard the succulent smacks of her husband kissing his way up Livia’s naked legs.
“Let’s focus, everybody,” said Clement in a voice that was, for him, a loud one. “Gail’s having our first orgasm of the night.” Our first orgasm. The pronoun, bold like Livia’s nearly-bare ass on that beach, transformed Gail’s climax into a double-decker, and she cried out as the renewed euphoria rippled through her. She was coming for four, and, damn it, she was going to do them all justice. Her heels kicked into the front of the sofa as another generous flood of nectar stained her silk.
Sinking into the couch with post-release heaviness, she seemed to hear her own moans continuing on in a disembodied voice. She realized that these were Livia’s moans she was listening to. “Your wife and I moan in the same key,” she remarked to Clement, who responded by nuzzling one of her orgasm-warm ears.
Livia’s moans were the result of whatever Daw’s mouth was now doing under her skirt. Her head was thrown back in a textbook posture of acute ecstasy. Gail watched Dawson’s shoulder muscles tense and untense with the precision of his wonderful task; and yet her gaze was repeatedly drawn to Livia’s exquisite face.
She had an impulse, and she acted on it.
“Mind if I cut in?”
Dawson had to pull out to see who was tapping him on the shoulder, and Gail inferred that he hadn’t heard her question over his hungry lapping. Livia opened her eyes, and Gail had a moment of fear that she’d be pissed at her for interrupting, or freaked out by Gail’s display of sapphic desire. But Livia’s pupils glowed with fierce anticipation when she took in the scene.
“Plunge in, babe,” said Daw, who had registered what Livia wanted. “I recommend it.”
The world beneath the peasant-skirt tent was a moist, spicy, palace for the senses. Livia’s pussy—slightly trimmed, but ninety-percent natural—was a tropical garden of feminine fragrance and pooling love-oils. Livia’s thigh muscles pumped against Gail’s ears, while her cunt beckoned to Gail, spasmodically clenching and unclenching . . . come to me, my dear, come taste me and fulfill me, it seemed to chant. Gail was virtually paralyzed by the feast—then paralysis melted into frenzy, and she angled her head right and left and right to lick, kiss, and nibble the flesh of upper thigh and outer pussy. The cunt gaped and quivered in utter heat, and Gail rushed in to satisfy it. Livia’s long, throaty sigh reverberated off every wall of the suburban living room.
What really got Gail was the release of control that Livia acceded to as pleasure consumed her. Here was this masterful chessboard schemer, dripping, cooing, giggling, squirming . . . completely and ecstatically undone by sensation, dissolving six ways from Sunday around the tongue of a friend. It thrilled Gail beyond belief to be steadily licking Livia into an incoherent soup of gratification. At that moment, she almost felt as if she never wanted to come out from under Livia’s skirt. Almost.
Caught in a delightful squeeze between Livia’s legs, with a rose-petal pussy orgasming in her face, Gail suddenly felt fingers yanking down her thong at the rear, and rubbing greedily along the crack of her bottom. Thick, male fingers. Dawson’s fingers. She wiggled her ass, luxuriating in the dual sensuality of being tickled behind while Livia’s cunt lips tickled her mouth under the magic skirt.
Gail rejoined the larger party after Livia had finished coming, and she saw that both men had their cocks out: Dawson was standing at the corner of the coffee table, dick in the air, while Clement sat in a corner of the couch, cradling his martini in one hand and something hard and fleshy in the other.
“I saved a seat for you, Gail,” said Clement.
She rose to her feet.
“Wait,” said Dawson. She turned to him, and he ate her mouth lovingly, grabbing her ass for good measure. “Have a good time, sweet.”
When Gail pulled her panties off and eased herself backward onto Clement’s prick, she knew that she had the best seat in the house. Her liquid pussy was throbbing with solid satisfaction, and her eyes were feasting on the sight of Livia, now nude, climbing atop Daw, who sat on the table. Livia straddled Daw face to face, and Gail was in heaven watching the woman’s lewdly spread ass as it started to bounce. Daw sculpted Liv’s breasts, and the gorgeous ass flounced harder in sympathetic delight.
Gail moved her ass, too. She felt as if she were both women at once, fucking both men. The aroma of cunt filled the place, and the whole world was sex. Chess was sex. Vodka was sex. Gail was going to explode with sex, like an engorged, excited cock. She would have laughed at this incongruous, paradoxical image, but she was too immersed in arousal to find anything funny. Everything went straight to her pussy, where she wrung every sensation from the situation with tingling, slow-motion rapture, using her ass as both motor and navigator. She was sitting on pure pleasure, churning and wallowing.
Then Clement shifted his position slightly, and his beneficent dick scraped Gail’s G-spot. Her vision honed in on a specific locus where the round of Livia’s left ass cheek squished itself sensuously onto a crease in Daw’s brand-new jeans; and Gail wailed with abandon, clutching frantically at her own clit and dragging herself up and down, up and down along Clement’s shaft. As her juices soaked his exposed boxers, Gail felt as if she were snogging with everyone in the room, pawing them all.
Beforehand, she’d imagined two male-female couples, classically naked in twin beds, fucking symmetrically. Formally matched up like chess opponents. But tonight had been a carnival of spontaneity that was so much richer than that. Couch and coffee table. People too aroused to get fully undressed. A chess game scratched from the schedule, in the heat of the moment.
And a woman up another woman’s skirt.
Back in private, in the quiet of 3 a.m., Dawson and Gail kissed long and hard, hovering at the foot of their bed.
“Did it turn you on to see me fucking another woman?” he asked, as their pelvises got reacquainted.
“No,” said Gail. “It turned me on to see you fucking that other woman.” Yet again, she felt a delicious tickle of lubrication making itself known.
“Check,” said Daw, with a twinkle.
“Mate,” said Gail, pushing him onto the mattress. She slapped him lightly on the ass. Then she pounced on him. “Pretend I’m Livia,” she whispered.
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Jeremy Edwards is the author of the erotocomedic novel Rock My Socks Off and the erotic story collection Spark My Moment (both published by Xcite Books). His libidinous short stories have been widely published online, as well as in over forty anthologies. His work was selected for The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, vols. 7, 8, and 9, and he has read at New York’s In the Flesh and Philadelphia’s Erotic Literary Salon. Jeremy’s greatest goal in life is to be sexy and witty at the same moment—ideally in lighting that flatters his profile. Find Jeremy here: http://www.jeremyedwardserotica.com.