Threesome Erotica
"Triple Aria," a sex story by Donnie Magazino
Damn that Mediterranean moon.
Cursing all below it with the mischievous lunacy of desire until the streets of Rome and the waterways of Venice explode with bacchanalia. And you are right there—hair spinning, heart racing—dancing this dangerous dance with them all.
But you are not Italian and you are not in Italy. You are a scrawny Midwestern redhead sipping white wine and savoring an original cast recording of La Boheme on an early autumn day in Des Moines. And your desire to offer sacrifice to the Roman goddess of lust reaches a fevered peak with each vocal flourish from these operatic masters.
But your longing for Italia takes true flight at the spying of your new neighbor.
You've seen him around: strolling to his car in the morning, walking his enormous dog in the evening; you once stole a glimpse of his Adonis-like frame as he jogged around the lake, every well-sculpted muscle dutifully snapping into place with each balletic stride. He is an olive-skinned stranger whose name might be Tony or Mario. By turns he seems affable, brooding, intellectual, Cro-Magnon-like and ultimately opaque. His stone-hard hips offer the promise of athletic lunges into your crimson-coated seat of desire. And the mitts at the end of his muscular wrists would steady your slender frame into place as you angled yourself onto him, over him, inside his soul.
Coming to Bed by Mick Payton available at Obsession Art
But who is that girl?
She is always there, always obscuring the breathtaking view of this flawlessly chiseled stranger, always tainting the torrential waters of your fantasy. They seemingly spend their lives entwined in a limb-locked tango, heedlessly draped in each other's arms, never straying more than mere feet from the warmth of one another. They trade smooches at the post office, inviting the laser-like glare of strangers; they hold hands at the supermarket and giggle like children at everything or nothing. She is Juliet to his Romeo, Mimi to his Rodolfo but with the promise of a happier ending than either couple enjoyed.
And because this ebony-tressed siren is always there, enveloped in the rippled reach of his arms, she acquires a supporting part in this opera, threatening to usurp your starring role, your precious prima donna position.
So why not let her soaring soprano cocoon itself around yours? Why not invite her to join this delirious phantasm? Why not allow that dark shawl of misshapen locks caressing her shoulders to spill forward and tickle your groan into a schoolgirl's giggle as your mystery man pumps and pumps and pumps away? Why not?
The thought of her sun-stamped torso circling above yours with his chest on her back and her thighs on your belly and his legs on her ass and your ankles in the air is too much. It is this very kind of revelry that you have been warned against. It is strictly verboten.
But why not?
So you find your new neighbors in their garden on a cloudless Thursday evening to invite them to dinner, explaining the gesture away as a Midwestern custom, a time-tested convention among friendly Iowans. But your eyes collectively lock in a way that belies your stated innocence; it is all you can do to stifle that incriminating shiver dancing up your spine. To make matters worse, they accept.
They arrive, hand-in-hand and stunning; a Roman god and goddess with soot-black hair flawlessly tossed atop their light bronze bodies; her curves dancing under the drape of a barely-there sun dress; his unmovable mass of tamed muscle stays hidden beneath a nondescript dress shirt and pants. But you know what's there; you've seen those pectorals, those biceps in motion, and the memory alone leaves you light-headed and scrambling for words. Your knees threatening to buckle so you channel your inner hostess and usher them inside with the painted-on grin your mother taught you for such occasions. You cannot wait to touch them, to tease them, to taste them.
The three of you stumble through small talk and an embarrassingly Midwestern dinner (pork chops and corn on the cob with bread pudding on the side; you thought about linguini and clam sauce, but it would have insulted them with blandness and clumsy execution). After dinner, there is more small talk. You discover that they are engaged and insanely in love and want kids someday, and are currently shopping for a Prius. You ask where they are from originally, hoping for someplace distant, exotic – Milan, maybe? Rome? New Jersey, at least? But they disappoint you: they are from Iowa City.
No more small talk; it is time for wine and music.
You slip into a mutual silence that makes no one uncomfortable. Mona, slightly drunk, plays with her hair, with the curious eyes of kitten crouched before a fishbowl. Michael reclines, empty wineglass balanced on his belly. He is drinking nothing now but the soothing intoxicant of a sweet soprano and his eyes shadow you as you mime skillfully sung words in a language you don't understand. Then the music stops but his eyes linger on your lips, joined by Mona's. You slump onto the couch, not exhausted, but poised, waiting, writing the next act.
Mona pierces the silence:
"This is nice. This…whatever it is that we're doing."
Michael chimes in, thanking you for the invite.
"I'm glad you could join me," you say. But you really want to say:
"Okay, it's time to get naked."
This is awkward. You don't know if it would be too early to say such a thing or too late. You excuse yourself and rise to the bathroom, and even knowing that they are both probably watching your ass changes nothing. The evening still somehow feels like a swing and a miss.
In the disquieting calm of your bathroom you give yourself a pep talk: you are going to play a good hostess and bid your guests a goodnight. And you will drift into sweet slumber armed with all the ammunition needed for another round of soul-soothing fantasy. You have heard his buoyant baritone and her throaty soprano; you have smelled the hickory scent that rises from his neck. You are ready to melt.
You exit the bathroom too early: they are kissing on the couch. She is astride him, her lap colliding with his, her legs trapping his torso. She kisses him with her hair, her cheeks, her teeth. She claws at his back and shoulders, pulling him, scratching him, urging him inside.
Her eyes snap open at the sharp alarm of your footsteps. You are frozen. With a finger she beckons you forward, mouth hungrily agape. You take tiny steps ahead like a ten-year-old caught with a broken lamp in your hands.
Michael slices through the tension:
"I should have warned you about what white wine does to her."
She dismounts him, leaving his lap empty, but with hands still attached to his shoulder and face. This is an invitation. You accept, sampling the sensuous meal of her mouth, then his; stroking her knotty nest of hair while nibbling at his ear; squirming into the groove of his growing desire while her hand sneaks inside your blouse and invades the velvety restraint of your bra.
You are no longer frozen; you are free.
Your mischievous hand travels under the silk of Michael's shirt and wanders through the matrix of his chest hair, nudging the corners of his mouth into a boyish grin. With a caveman's grunt he shoulders you and Mona upward and outward, causing a tumble of your bodies from the couch to the floor.
You are kids now, acne-clad teenagers, exploring, investigating, testing the boundaries of your newly granted freedom. You could now announce that it is time to get naked – but there is no need to. The darting, impatient eyes of your guests say it louder than a full-throated holler through a bullhorn.
Mona goes first; with a catlike stretch of her arms, she snatches a handful of fabric at each of her sides and slips her paper-thin sun dress over her head, snaking free and revealing the black satin panties and bra of a naughty girl, the kind your parents warned you about. You have never seen a more outrageous smile than the one she now wears; she is a tigress baring her lethally angled teeth; without laying a hand upon you, she is ripping your insides to shreds.
Now it is Michael's turn to disrobe. There is no taunting, no teasing in the shedding of his garments. He whips away his shirt, pants and sandals in what appears to be one blinding streak. Suddenly he is wearing nothing but the cocky grin of an adolescent make-out king. For a stunning second you inhale the image – his massive manhood in full upward arch below a drum-tight tummy and a dune-filled dessert of chest – as if fearing it could all vanish with the nagging ring of an alarm clock. But your dreams have never dazzled this vividly.
You breathe for what feels like the first time in hours; it is your turn.
You struggle with your belt and your silk blouse is suddenly made of concrete. (Why does the hasty removal of clothes always seem so effortless in Hollywood love scenes?) Mona and Michael race to the rescue. She unbuttons your blouse with the unhurried hands of a lifelong friend; Michael lunges below your skirt and tears it away like a madman.
Mona yanks you into a kiss and the three of you melt into a tawdry maze of tongues, licking, tickling, probing. You fall onto your back, inviting them inside. Mona dampens your left leg with kisses; Michael does much the same with your right. You have never been a bigger fan of teamwork.
For a fleeting moment, Michael's unflagging soldier steals the spotlight, poking through your pale breasts and demanding attention. You share a glance with Mona, then a kiss before Michael's insistent member. He groans in approval until you and Mona send his back to the ground with a silencing shove. With her dark brown patch of dripping love inches above his flicking tongue, Mona wraps her lips around his cock, giving it a fresh coat of candy apple red. She bobs and twists and licks and kisses. Your hand rests on her cheek as if hoping to steal away a trace this bad girl's brass.
Seconds later you reach for the back of her hair and pull away that manically bobbing mouth, interrupting Michael's avalanche of moans. You decide that his cock now needs a coat of bubblegum pink. You start slowly, nibbling, tugging, teasing. Then you gulp down his deep purple tip. You are big girl now, and you brave a deeper plunge with each trip down. Michael's moans have resumed, Mona's spine pushes into concavity, her pussy pressed to the motoring lashes of her lover's tongue. And the world is without flaw.
Mona, now seated astride her fiancé's soaking face, grabs your elbows and tugs you upward. She wants you face-to-face, brown nipple to pink nipple. She wants you to savor the reckless ride of his stiff and steady pole. And you are only too happy to oblige.
You mount him, wiggling him into you, with a molasses-slow drop to his cock's base. Mona – in the midst of a torturous climb to climax – places her arms on your shoulders. You lean into her heavy breaths, her aching cries.
Your head finds rest on her shoulder and your hips have never boasted a more buoyant spring. With each trip up and down, you are weaker, less in control of your limbs, but somehow replenished.
You are bucking harder, squealing louder with every step closer to that brilliant glow just ahead. Michael's heated grinds meet yours halfway. They are as rough and as hungrily planted as they are in your fantasies. A hand – maybe hers, maybe his – grips your thigh, steadies you, stops you from falling. But you are falling anyway, spiraling down into an empty chasm of unceasing glee, with nothing around you but the grunted wails of your dinner guests tumbling, screeching, soaring into crescendo con brio.
You slip and land on her and him, wedging yourself into a comfortable corner of flesh.
Lying there lumped in a sweaty mess of gleeful exhaustion and violently stirred souls, your breaths eerily gather in sync and the need for small talk arises as your new friends spring to their feet to find their clothes.
You announce that the evening has been a delightful first for you. Michael says that a three-way – a long-held fantasy – is also a first for them.
You correct them: you meant the Italian thing.
With a girlish snicker, Mona reveals the dream-shattering truth: Michael is half-Hungarian, half-German; her ancestry is Russian Jewish.
And with a breezily shared smile they are gone, and you slump to the couch, reeling, collecting your thoughts and breaths, easing back into the body you had abandoned for several sublime minutes.
And while thumbing through your CD collection one mischievous query lingers:
Are there any Hungarian operas?
Originally published July 2010