Escaping Repressions Part 4 — D.E. Carroll

Did you miss the first two segments of Escaping Repressions? Find them here.

…The rest of the kitchen opens up once you walk in. It occupies the entire back portion of the house. I walk further and then I just can’t help myself. I start laughing. The long and hard kind that makes you stop and double over with your hands on your knees. Someone else starts laughing too and pretty soon I can feel tears forming at the corners of my eyes. “Glad to see you find me so amusing,” the voice says.

I swallow and breathe deeply until I get my voice back.  “No…No one could not find the humor in this,” I say.

“Well, that’s good to know,” the voice says.

I straighten up and make my way towards the kitchen table until I am standing next to Marilyn Traver, our hostess for the evening. I can’t stop smiling while I look at her. “Of all the conditions I thought I might find you in, I have to say, this one wasn’t even on the list.”

Marilyn flashes a grin at me that is somehow both wicked and innocent. “I always try to make the most of the element of surprise.”

Marilyn, our hostess and the wife of our host is lying naked atop the kitchen table. Little slices and cubes of fruit are laid out on her stomach. A strawberry dots the tip of each nipple and half of a peach sits directly over her sex, both covering it and drawing your eyes to it. “Where’s Chris?” I ask. Asking for the whereabouts of a woman’s husband when she is lying on a table in front of you naked and covered in fruit, may seem a tad bit insane. But tonight, under the circumstances, logic is a difficult thing to come by.

Marilyn waves a hand in the air, “He’s never too far away. I’m sure he is around.”

A second voice calls out from behind me. “I am always around.” I turn and there is my host, smiling at me with a drink in his hand. Next to me Chris is the most dressed person at the party. He is naked but for a pair of black silk boxers hugging his hips, covering him.

This is the least that either one of us has seen the other in. So we both take our time, letting our eyes trail up, down and over each other. At least a minute goes by before we speak again. “I like it,” he says. “It suits you.” He says it casually, in a friendly manner. As if I had worn a new outfit to the office and he was complimenting me on it.

I don’t even try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Being naked suits me?” A hand gently strokes my back.

“Almost naked, dear. Almost. There is a difference.” Leave it to Marilyn to give even the obvious so much more meaning.

If, some time down the road, anyone here were to try to describe this night to a person on the outside, the setting, guests and events, most people hearing this would probably form a very distinct picture in their minds of Marilyn and Chris. This picture would probably include images such as paddles, scary looking sex toys, dog collars and lots and lots of leather. Words like sex fiend and nymphomaniac would likely also come to mind. None of this is close to the truth however.

Chris and Marilyn are both in their early forties but look ten years younger. Both enjoy the outdoors, playing sports and taking long walks. Chris is five foot ten with a frame that is more lean and sinuous than outright muscular. His shoulders are not broad but are well developed, as are the muscles of his arms. His stomach is flat instead of chiseled. A “washboard stomach” I suppose is the term some would use, sitting on top of a narrow waist and strong legs. He carries himself well and moves easily thanks to years of activity.

Marilyn is my height, five foot six. She may not be tall like Erika or have breasts as large as Jessie’s (high B’s, low C’s at the most). But she has supple curves and lines in places I wish I did. Her stomach is as flat as her husband’s. Her legs are long and her hips have a sway to them that puts Jessie’s to shame. Chris once told me that on their first date, Marilyn had him the moment she walked up to him. I have no problem understanding this.

Both host and hostess possess a vitality and charm that attracts company to them no matter where they are. They both have nine to five jobs, mortgage payments, vacation time, sick days, Fourth of July barbecues. But then so do I. So does everyone here tonight. So, how do you explain the rest? I don’t know. All I can tell you is what I have seen.

In just the last ten minutes alone, I have seen a local pharmacist carry a normally demure librarian up the stairs to one of the guest bedrooms, while his wife is given lessons on stress relief exercises by a female physical therapist. I have seen construction workers and nurses, personal assistants and hair dressers, police officers and housewives. All of us getting away from ourselves so we can be ourselves. And no two people in the world can bring us together under better circumstances than these two. I look into the eyes of my hosts, his dark brown, hers green, and I smile. A hand gently strokes my back again.

“Hungry?” Marilyn asks.

“You have no idea,” I say. I start with the collection on her stomach. Some would say this is a time when you are allowed to eat with your hands. But I don’t even get that far. I bend over the kitchen table until my face is only inches above her stomach. Everything is clustered together neatly, as though Marilyn were a platter you could pick from. I have a feeling that was the idea. Little cubes of cantaloupe and watermelon are nestled in with slices of apple and oranges, pears cherries and a sprig of grapes sits directly over her navel. Right now I can’t think of a time when I was so hungry. I lower my mouth and start with the watermelon. It is so fresh it crunches against my tongue. Juice fills my mouth, the cold an exhilarating contrast to the heat that still glows inside me. The slices of orange are so strong they make my taste buds tingle.

Cantaloupe, slices of pear, cherries, the grapes, they all make their way past my lips, they all dance on my tongue. But once swallowed, instead of sating my hunger, it grows. No, wait. That’s not quite right.

It’s like there are two hungers burning away inside of me. A hunger for food and a hunger for her. For Marilyn. And while the fruit sates the one, the other still starves. The need for her burns brighter until finally the fruit isn’t enough and I am licking the juices off of Marilyn’s skin. My tongue bathes her and she squirms under my touch. I make my way up from her stomach, slowly over each rib, till I reach her breasts. The strawberries on top shine like bright red beacons, drawing me closer.

Licking my lips I move to her right breast and hover over it a moment. Out of the corner of my eye I catch movement. When I turn to look I end up locking eyes with Chris again. This time his face is less than a foot away. His mouth hovers over his wife’s left breast the way mine hovers over her right. Never taking our eyes off each other, we both lower our mouths at the same time. The sensation hits my tongue like a firecracker. Sparks dance along my taste buds and a moan that seems to come from the very soles of my feet bursts from my throat. Again the contrast of it all grips me somewhere low in my body. The strawberry so crisp, so cool. Marilyn’s breast so supple, so warm. While holding the strawberry in my mouth it is difficult to roll my tongue around Marilyn’s nipple, but I manage anyway. I can hear her breathing, fast and ragged, her moans fill my ears like music. Her back arches off the table as her whole body tries to push as much of her breast into my mouth as it can. I want to stay that way a long, long while, until I have the whole sensation imprinted perfectly into my memory. But reluctantly, I am forced to pull back. I can not swallow the strawberry whole, and I can not bite into it with her nipple between my teeth. Marilyn whimpers softly as I release her, squirming atop the table with unreleased energy.

Chris lifts his mouth from his wife’s breast and looks at me. The look is enough. Wordlessly, we move in time with each other until we have taken up positions at opposite ends of Marilyn. Chris kneels on the floor until his face is level with his wife‘s. I stay standing but now, as I lean over again, my face hovers over the peach still nestled in the hollow of my hostess’ legs. Even if my life depended on it, I couldn’t stop smiling now.

The scent of her hits me then. Even over the peach I can smell that tell-tale musk. That heady aroma of excitement and want a woman gives off when she is ready. Like I said. Women like to say that it’s men who lose all intellectual capabilities once aroused. But it happens to women as well. It just takes a bit more to get us to this point is all.

Slowly, fluidly, I pull back my lips, exposing my teeth. Lowering my head further, my tongue darts out and touches down on the boundary line, the place where peach and flesh meet on her upper thigh. My tongue traces the line, running a circle around the peach. Licking up the light mixture of juice and sweat from her inner thigh to her hip.

Marilyn’s breathing speeds up, becomes more shallow as I make my way around and around. Goosebumps pop out all over her body. As I come into the final turn I let my tongue slip deeper, under the peach, into the valley between her thighs. I touch her only briefly but she jumps anyway. The breath leaving her body in a rush.

In one smooth motion I pick the peach off her body with my teeth. It even tastes like her. I take one large bite and then offer the rest to Chris. He accepts it without hesitation.

Moving quickly now, I grab Marilyn around the hips and pull until she is closer to me. Pieces of fruit go flying across the table but nobody seems to care. Least of all me. Then my hands slip under and around her legs to rest on top of her hips. I spread my legs for balance, rest the weight of my upper body on my elbows and forearms. A good part of me still wants to tease her, to keep her on the edge for as long as possible. But another part, a bigger part, is down to its last reserves of patience. I’m tired of waiting and besides, I don’t think I could tease her for much longer without giving in myself…

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This story is going to continue, so come on back in two weeks and we’ll have the next installment of this sexy tale. Did you miss the any of the previous segments of this sexy tale? Read them here.

D.E. Carroll is a  twenty eight year old writer and poet who has a particular interest in erotic short fiction. He is a part time student and full time government employee who spends most of his spare time either reading or writing.