The Party-Part Five, Listen

I’m told to just lay there, so I do. There are three others, all sort of stuck on benches just big enough to take our weight and balance us. My legs are apart on either side of the bench and my toes, stretched as long as I can get them, just make contact with the floor. I pretended to be in it for the money, but the money was really just there to justify this indulgence, to take away the fear of being sprawled naked in front of strangers, my breasts fallen to the sides, my pussy open to the touch of whomever wants to touch it. My lips, my nipples, even my freaking knees are available and I lay there, because they told me to, because I want to, with my hands frozen in place on the legs of a bench.

Often, a man will approach me, make eye contact with me, and lay a trembling hand on the breast nearest him. They exhale visibly, as if they were sure they’d never feel one again, and respectfully let it drop again. Some kiss me on the forehead like a child after they do. Some kiss me on the lips. My pussy lays open and waits. The first to have the guts, or maybe to take on the responsibility, is a woman.

By this time, my mind has been filled with fingers, smooth ones and callused ones, manicured and shaped ones, others with rough nails that scratch their signature into me. A fondue pot boils chocolate for strawberries and melons nearby. I imagine the tips of the strawberries, dripping with the chocolate, rubbing against me, outlining my curves and dips. I imagine it toying my clit, dipping into me, twisted and popped into someone’s mouth.

But the lower half of my body is entirely ignored for an hour. All around me, people are in mixed states of stimulation, some just buzzing and watching others, some in drowsy, post-coital bliss, some exploring, some showing off, some laughing, some howling, and my body just swells more with each tease, needs more, is ready to make summit just on its own. And then a woman, an aging hippy who fell into money somewhere along the way, bends over me curiously, slides her hand up my inner thigh and makes contact. I listen to the sound of a man coming somewhere, the held and broken breaths.

“You need this, baby,” she says, and I’m sure she’s stoned out of her mind. But she splits me, plunges three fingers into me and curves right into my g-spot. She kisses me tightly, holding my face in, then licks a line from the finial of my breastbone, down to my navel and along the sides of my hips. She rubs the g-spot nimbly, a prayer forming in my lips. Suddenly, my back arches, the sea parts and crashes back into itself and I float just off the beach, warm, wet and blissed. When I open my eyes, my back still arched, I make eye contact with the man behind me, also on a bench. My face still has the serious, worried look of the orgasm and he smiles deeply at me.

The woman who made me come laughs, takes a fingerful of my wet, brings it to him and slides it into his mouth.

“So you will know if she’s right for you,” she says. She walks to the other side of him, throws a leg over him, pulls his cock back to her and begins to ride. His eyes, imprinted on my brain at the moment of climax, become desperate and sweet. A small crowd forms to watch, some with hands down each other’s pants, but he watches only me. His face twitches and he comes too, the only blink in his stares, his shoulders turning and rattling on his bench. “Fuck her!” the hippy says, “You’re fucking her!” She comes just out of my sightlines. The only way I know is the slight cringe in his lips and the relaxed tension of the audience.

When they part, gone back to their individual fantasies, the man behind me whispers in shiny lips, “I’m Aaron. 773-555-2731.”

“Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731. Aaron. 773-555-2731.” He lifts his hand and places it on my cheek before dropping it back to his bench and putting his head down.