The Party-Part Two Bend Over

We enter the room slowly, taking it in, my hand on the back of Marianne’s pants. The suede feels good against my fingers and falls heavily on her curves. We’re in a miniature mansion that is the penthouse at The Chicago Hilton and Towers. The rooms have high ceilings, long, cream drapery and vertically detailed edging. The chandeliers are crystal and they draw more light down onto the floor in reflections and dots. Thick and padded oriental rugs comfort our footsteps. The room reminds us that we are rich and important, that not everyone can be here. You can see it from Lake Shore Drive, a little White House, lit to the heavens. Inside, tonight at least, is a large group of people waiting to have their clothes taken off. I plan for us to be the first.

I lead Marianne to a centerish portion of the room with a little bit of space and reach around to her belt. She is, I see in a gilt mirror far off, too stunned to fight and simply waits, breathing. The belt is undone and the suede drops. I pull it in my fist at her knees, twisting the slack so that she can’t move. I push her down by the back and watch the rise of her ass, the twin curves into the depression at her pussy, the four-leafed clover in pink underlined by her thighs, an arrow pointed to the floor.

I’ve seen it many times, but never has it been seen by this many people, never has it been exposed to quite this much air, this much admiration, this much casual voyeurism. I’d been wanting to show everyone what I went home to for years and see her again as I did when we first met, when I moved into this pussy to stay, when I had yet to find its motives and its folded delights. “Here!” I wanted to yell. “Have a look at mine!” I waited a while, watched this new familiar thing, holding a distance so others could see, though I wouldn’t look at them, wanted them to be comfortable looking. And then, my zipper between thumb and forefinger, pulled down slowly, and my cock pulled out, because the pussy is mine and waits patiently only for me.

Marianne didn’t want to go to this. She worried that people she knew would be here, though we live in L.A.. She’s uncomfortable about her age, feels that she’s got to be close to invisible now. I can tell her that she’s beautiful all day long, but it’s throwing darts at a submarine. She won’t have it. I hope she can turn her face and see the men staring at her, wanting her, wanting to be me.

I enter her slowly, conscious of those watching, that they can see the veins and the ridges disappear into her, watching it myself, down the white shirt and beyond the belt. Mine. All of it. I hold her by her hips and thrust into her, almost pulling out each time so they could once again see the full length descend inside of her. I even pull back to the tip, let it have a feel on the lips of her pussy before another dip. It’s slow. I’m meant to take my time.

For two weeks, I wouldn’t let Marianne come. That’s how I got her here. If she was in the bath, I’d barge in unpredictably for Q-Tips or hand lotion or floss. If she got up in the middle of the night, I’d get up with her, make her a toasted peanut butter and jelly sandwich with milk. If I needed to run an errand, I found a reason that she had to come with me. Sex did not happen. She could not tolerate less than an orgasm a week. I’d wound her into a reel and put a weight on it that got bigger every day. She agreed to the party today, nodded as if it was her idea in the first place.

There is a crowd forming around us at a polite distance. When Marianne’s purse drops from her shoulder, a polite man steps forward to stand it up for her. He looks at me and holds his hands out. I nod. His hand lands gently on the back of her neck, strokes it, down around her shoulders and below to her breast. His face becomes more serious. I feel Marianne’s pussy tighten. He lets her go with an affectionate squeeze and walks away. I take some of Marianne ‘s pussy juice on my thumb and rub at her asshole. She shivers, pulses in my swipes. I let it drop in. She yells out immediately, her knees losing their lock. She vises my cock in intermittent grasps. My eyes tear up to the chandeliers and the carved ceiling, little dots like my wife’s nipples as I empty myself into her. Her. Mine.