Decadence (10 page)

Quince
. Spanish, for the word
fifteen
.

Pulgadas
. Spanish for
inches
.

The Brit's well-endowed partner held her backside,
gripped her like he owned her. Quince Pulgadas nibbled her and when the bed rotated it gave me an unblocked view. Like everyone else, I looked at his phallus. Women
oohed
and
aahed
and excited whispers permeated the room. It was amazing. Saint Patrick had not run all of the snakes out of Ireland. A woman near me whispered that she wondered what it would be like to experience a man so blessed. I wondered the same. Another woman said that when a dick was that large it wasn't attractive. She shivered in fear. But she didn't walk away. She was like me, curious. I marveled and wondered how much my yoni, my womb, could handle. Wondered what it would be like to be opened so wide, to be filled so deep.

Watchers moved closer. Body heat permeated me like an electric blanket left on a high setting. Everyone was still chattering, evaluating, judging, whispering as the oral sex gala ensued. When the Brit and Quince changed positions, when she took over, she caught her breath, pulled her hair back away from her face, her glorious flapper hairstyle now undone, licked the sides of her lips, playfully stretched her mouth as if to say she had a serious task in front of her, and as a few chuckled she went to work, moisturized him, then growled and sucked and stroked his phallus. Women applauded and cheered her on, told her to swallow that sword. The wet, greedy sounds she made echoed. Her partner pushed up on his elbows and watched her, watched his impressive erection, the ingress and egress into her orifice used for speech, watched her become artistic and tongue-paint up and down his meaty shaft, watched her stroke him and stare at him, own him, control him. When she was ready, after she had raised her head, taken in the crowd, and regarded her spectators with a slick smile, she lowered her oval-shaped face and sucked the head. While he begged, as he pleaded, she gave him the most profound deep throat. She could only take half of what he offered, but it was still amazing to watch her master the gag reflex. She did it in slow motion over and over. His lingam was her toy and she had fun. She played with his sex. A long way from the UK, this was a room filled with foreigners she'd never run into as she walked Piccadilly Circus or Leicester Square with her family, with her husband, with her children, with her parents, with her cute little dog. In America, she could be the lover she'd always wanted to be.

That had been me the night that Bret used the hot towels. With Prada, the weekend that we had been together, that had been me then as well. But that had been me many nights; the hotel keys in my office the notches on my bedpost. Many nights, yet not enough nights.

She turned and they were in position ninety-six. He licked. She sucked. Her British accent made it sound extremely sexy. Waywardness always sounded more enticing with a foreign accent that created exotic moans, moans that were so damn provocative. With each stroke of his tongue, with each greedy whimper, Quince Pulgadas made her quiver. She begged him not to make her come again. Then when she started to come again, begged him not to stop. The Brit no longer practiced restraint. Everything that had been upper crust about her had vanished. Orgasm erased all that was false, suspended all manners that had been learned and practiced. We showed the savage that lived inside. We were savages. Seeing her draped in all the trappings of the privileged and acting like a common whore was very hot, sexy. In rapture, she was someone new, so unlike the woman I had chatted with. I glanced left, then right. It was a large room, a room of many beds. They were on the largest bed, a bed in the center of all of the sensualists, a bed made to hold at least ten lovers, a circular bed that was two feet off the ground and rotated in slow motion. It reminded me of the beds that they used in live sex performances in Amsterdam.

A handsome man came to me, smooth brown chest, the subtle smile of a great lover, nails manicured, no visible hair on his body, very nice build. When you are sexually attracted to someone, when aroused, when sexually awakened, your pupils dilate. His dilated. As did mine.

I said, “Your accent.”

“What about it?”

“You're not American.”

“Not exactly. You?”

“Trini.”

“Island girl.”

“Damn right.”

He grinned and told me that he was a fusion of Surinam and Bonerian. Light brown eyes. As we stood and watched oral sex, he told me that he found me attractive. I nodded and my soft, feminine expression, the way I repeatedly touched my face and hair broadcast that I found him very sexy as well, and that I did admit to him, then reminded him that practically everyone in this building was sexy beyond belief and reason. Pulled away by the noise, the moans, the sucking sounds, blood pressure rising, I returned to watching the Brit's oral sex. As my nipples became thumbs, the man from Curaçao kept talking; his voice was deep and provocative, each word stimulating.

Next to Quince and the Brit, an Indian man led his woman to the mattress. They were the perfect Bollywood couple. They crawled onto the rotating bed. The woman with him, her skin was beautiful, her hands and arms painted in henna as if she were prepared to celebrate Diwali. The henna was astounding. Her hair was coal black; her eyebrows arched thin, and no hair was on her genitalia. She was as beautiful as Esha Gupta, Lara Dutta, and Trisha Krishnan, had that girl-next-door look. Her shoes were beautiful, of course, but the decorations on her body made her stand out. The attention of the men went to her brown skin, to the forbidden Indian girl, her exoticness extreme here, where it was a rarity, where she stood out in the crowd.

She opened her legs for her lover, and he mounted her in a hurry. He regarded the crowded room, then looked at her and stroked her with clumsy motions. He wasn't skilled at the art of massaging yoni with lingam, made love like this was his first time, or maybe he couldn't handle so many nude women watching him, so many judging him.

Compared with Quince's, his phallus resembled the penis of a child. Yet the Indian man continued as if his diminutive lingam rivaled King Kong's. His technique, the way he moved, how he made his woman feel was now public record. He kept stroking, stopping, looking up, watching others, and eventually restarting his awkward stroke, disturbed by the number of onlookers who were salivating over his woman. She was very pretty, worthy of lust. A very handsome man offered to join them. She looked at the man and yielded a nervous smile, a positive smile of anticipation. Her husband touched her face, moved her eyes from that man, shook his head. He would not share. That was not the fantasy he would give his wife. But so many men looked down on her beauty. A glint in his eyes said that his ego couldn't handle the moment. He finally found a rhythm and moved in and out of his woman, strained, pushed inside as hard as he could.

The good-looking island man who had stopped next to me rotated his face toward me. I revolved my face to gaze into his eyes. As I stood alone in Eros, as my breathing told of my sexual distress, he read me. Read my craving. Read me in this weakened, sensitive state.

He asked, “Would you care to join the party?”

My mouth said,
No, thank you
, but my tone, my dilated pupils exposed my true sentiments, the eye contact I gave him in response to the eye contact that he gave me, my grin that matched his, the way I twirled my hair and shifted from high heel to high heel, the scent of my pheromones that overruled the aroma from my lotion and perfume, my words were negative but my eyes were a flashing green light.

With his mild accent he followed and said, “Would love to introduce you to my wife.”

“Where is she?”

“Swimming. That or playing volleyball and making friends.”

“Oh. Bi-curious or bi?”

“For you, the way you look, I'm sure that she'll be whatever you need her to be.”

“How considerate.”

“We'll treat you right.”

His eyes massaged my breasts.

Mine moved lower, imagined his lingam.

A man wanted to be successful with all women.

A woman wanted to be victorious with the man of her choosing.

My concentration returned to the British aristocrat in ruby slippers. The moisture from her mouth, the sucking and slurping continued to give me goose bumps. She wasn't rushing anymore. She had cooled him off, took him away from orgasm, teased him. I closed my eyes. She savored him noisily. She was so turned on. My mouth wanted lingam. My mouth wanted to feel phallus, wanted it down my throat, wanted to swallow orgasm. When I opened my eyes I was close enough to touch her. I licked my lips as she exercised her power over him and controlled him as if he were her slave, her love slave, bound by his pending orgasm, not shackles. The Brit's lover couldn't take it anymore, pushed her away, panting. She laughed at him. With zeal and a grunt he pushed her back down on the mattress, the rubies in her shoes sparkling in the room's faint light, forced her on her back and opened her legs wide. She laughed until his tongue touched her clit and moved like gyres of warm wind coming over the Pacific. She lost her breath and shivered. Her lover consumed her yoni. Her hands clamped on his head, held him, no more laughter.

I felt different eyes on me.

That was when I saw her cerulean eyes for the first time.

Another woman was fascinated by my existence.

She was beautiful, in a simplistic yet extraordinary way. She owned a combination of sensual qualities; her complexion as erotic as it was mysterious. She saw my subtle reaction, saw me inhale, causing my breasts to rise. She swallowed, blinked a hundred times. And since she didn't look away, since she held my stare with more blinking, she was curious. Again I licked my lips and swallowed, nervousness rising. I was taken aback by her directness, her lack of shyness, her coming across, in that instant, as being bold and uninhibited. As we stared, I lost my breath at the sight of her outstanding natural beauty.

Smile broad and friendly, she walked to me, her steps slow and measured, testing me, and said, “Cowabunga. You're attractive.”

“Thank you. As are you. You have killer eyes.”

She reached to me, undid my towel, and with a coy little wink, she pulled it away.

As I stood nude in high heels I said, “Rule number two.”

“I hate rules. Everybody is here because they hate rules, then they give us rules.”

Part of me wanted to protest, wanted to scream at her, but I grinned and she smirked. She took it away from me as if she were removing me from the safety of a cocoon. As if she were freeing me.

She smiled. “Much better. Everyone wondered what you looked like butt naked.”

“Everyone?”

“Remarkable legs. Breasts to die for. Look at that little waist. Oh, I'm jealous. Don't hide that beautiful body behind a drab little towel.”

“I wasn't ready to show any more than I was showing.”

“Oops.”

“Yeah. Oops.”

I reached to her and removed her red DECADENCE towel.

She laughed and handed me back my pink towel, put the end in my hand. Her body was amazing. Simply amazing. I returned her red towel as well, grinned at her naughtiness, shaking my head.

She smelled like fresh rain, so clean, and her physique was beyond astounding, so very feminine. Her aroma was simply clean, not overdone with scented chemicals. She didn't put her towel back on. She stood, as she was, towel in her hand, proud to be a nudist. It was a challenge. As if we were both playing chicken. I accepted the dare. I let my towel hang to the floor, swallowed and looked to my left, glanced to my right. Smiles met me in every direction. People admired what I owned, but no one leered. They acknowledged, nodded, then returned to watching the performance. They were all too busy watching both the Brit and Quince or adoring the East Indian couple. I looked at the bold, audacious, naked woman who had removed my towel without asking. Her nipples were as distressed as mine. Her breathing just as ragged. She held her legs together, did that as if she were trying to stop her sex from shouting. I stood and I was damn near doing the same thing.

She said, “My name is Rosetta.”

“Nia Simone.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

Her hair was wet, skin clean. No makeup was on her face. She had just showered. That meant she had just finished sex. I hadn't seen her in action, so I assumed she had been behind a closed door.

She said, “Cowabunga. She is getting the tongue real good.”

“He is an expert at the art of cunnilingus.”

“I wish he would fuck her again and get it over with.”

“He fucked her?”

“He did. They had stopped right before you entered the area.”

“That's why she was so loud.”

“Bitch was screaming.”

“Wow. He fit?”

“About half.”

“Half?”

“Might have been more. Couldn't see for the crowd.”

“She's so nice and curvy, like she could make it all vanish.”

“A nice ass and a full figure don't mean that the well runs deep.”

“True. Like big hands and big feet don't mean a thing.”

“You can look around the room and see that's a lie.”

“This guy here is the exception.”

The Brit was crazed, almost deranged, and the room saw another angel get its wings.

Rosetta said, “You've garnered an audience of obsequious admirers. And I am not ashamed to say that I am instantly one as well. If you don't mind my saying so, you're an excellent specimen.”

“It's the shoes.”

“Babe, the women love your shoes. Those are so fucking hot. But the men, well, as far as the men are concerned, we are all barefoot.”

I said, “I'm watching the show. How can people carry on a conversation and watch this?”

“Right now I have to talk to keep from engaging in public masturbation. At this moment I'm so heated up that I'd come so hard I'd probably squirt across the room. I'd skeet like a man right now.”