Decadence (11 page)

We laughed.

I playfully bumped into Rosetta and she playfully bumped back against me. She was aroused. Her flesh against mine was exciting.

I asked Rosetta, “What do you do? Are you an instructor here?”

“Not even. Program coordinator. Simplified job title for a complicated job. Economic development. Human rights. My job is very stressful, political. Lots of traveling. Cameroon, Ghana, Kenya, Nigeria, South Africa, and Uganda. Taking some time off. Enjoying my life. I come here and take all of those hats off and get rejuvenated.”

“You're a bold one.”

“You'd be surprised to see how boring I am in the real world, how reserved I am, how people perceive me—as a stick-in-the-mud.”

“Your husband? What does he do?”

“Hedge funds. Babe. Nia Simone. She's watching you.”

The Brit's eyes locked on mine. Prickling danced across my flesh, waxed and covered me with tickles of fire and electricity. The spotlight was on me. Every one, all eyes had followed her gaze toward me. She wanted me to come to her. The invitation was clear. In rapture, she raised her left arm, lifted her delicate limb and with one finger she motioned toward me as if I were an old friend and she had a secret to tell, if only I came close enough for her to whisper. Fantasy lived in her eyes, as it had lived in the eyes of the Vancouverite on that hot summer night. The Brit desired to have a stranger come to her, touch her, make love, be made love to, never knowing who she was, as if God had sent a brown angel in high heels to satisfy her carnal needs.

Rosetta whispered, “Go to her. Help her wrestle that anaconda.”

Then, without warning, he penetrated our conversation, changed a chat between two women into a verbal ménage à trois and told me, “Upgrade your status.”

The handsome man from Curaçao remained on the other side of me. The last comment was his. He studied my unclothed body and hummed. It was cute, comical, and it made me smile. As I chuckled, I pulled his towel away. He didn't object. He had shaved away all of his pubic hairs. His nice, dark lingam was many shades darker than his complexion. It looked strong. It looked as delicious as chocolate.

I asked, “May I?”

He licked his lips, then, with a lump in his throat, he nodded.

My finger traced it, felt how warm it was, and then held it in my hand, stroked it a half-dozen times before I sighed and let it go. He tried to act unaffected. The truth stood up. His lingam rose. He made it do that. Made it bounce the way a bodybuilder moved his pectoral muscles. It was smooth, the veins that ran along its length thick and powerful. It was smooth, clean, no baby botts.

Eyes were on us. I felt the attention. I felt the energy.

He touched me. He traced his fingers around my distended nipples, used both hands, and outlined both of my erections at once. I wanted to moan. But I didn't surrender. I clenched my teeth. My hands became fists. I sucked my tongue. Then he leaned in and kissed my neck. Sucked my neck. Pulled me closer. Pulled my hair back and sucked on my ear. My breathing caught in my throat. So many eyes were on us. Sex was before their eyes but our foreplay teased many of the Watchers. What he did, how he treated me was very romantic.

We kissed and made out and touched each other.

Like we were teenagers.

A thousand soft moans later I pushed away.

Naked, revealed, I whispered, “Rule number two is now in effect.”

He nodded. He had left me light-headed. If he touched me again, I would've come. I fought not to squirm where I stood, in torture, and watched his lips as he talked, as he stopped talking, as he pulled them in, as he squirmed where he stood, his arousal very pronounced.

We stared at each other. A moment later, he put his towel back on and he left, fascinated, erect, disappointed, but with a grin. I was so wet that I imagined my honey moved stealthily down my legs.

Rosetta stayed next to me. I looked at her and imagined her as my lover, imagined us in that way, alone, just us, and her smile said she imagined the same. But she didn't make a move and neither did I.

She asked, “Who was that guy with the nice towel rack?”

“No idea. Just another one who wants to be the next one.”

Again I glanced at the Indian couple. Finally her passion ignited. She moved in sensuous motions, owned the rhythm of Odissi, Bharatanatyam, Mohiniyattam, Kathak, Manipuri, and Kathakali.

But the Brit was nasty and dynamic.

She forced her lover onto his back and again she took as much of him as she could inside of her mouth. Once again her eyes met mine.

She was calling for me.

I was put under a spell.

Naked.

Beyond aroused.

Needing to come.

My moment had arrived.

The erotic architecture. The exotic scents. Imported chocolate. Moscato. The stimulating art. The provocative videos. Being a Watcher. Touching and being touched and having my flesh kissed by a handsome stranger. The sexual excitement that surrounded me at this moment underscored all of my senses. I had endured so much foreplay.

As I inhaled lavender, licorice, chocolate, pumpkin, and the hint of what smelled like doughnuts, as I breathed in scents that increased arousal, my DECADENCE towel slid from my hand, fell to the floor.

I abandoned my pink cocoon.

The confident didn't need a plush security blanket.

The self-assured vixen that lived inside of me, the dark side of Gemini took control, ignited and rose inside of me. It rose up inside of me as my past watched me, head tilted, his eyes wide, his mouth open. He stared at the woman with a face made up like fire.

He stared at a woman who was on fire.

He swam in his memories and he stared.

The man with the sea-green eyes stood nude.

Unseen by me, he stared.

He watched me move as if I were in a sexual trance.

I moved through the crowd of Watchers and went toward the aristocratic woman with the hairstyle of a flapper, took slow steps, and walked toward the foreign woman decorated in the ruby heels.

Libertines applauded.

It was a thunderous clapping as if they had been watching me all night long, eagerly waiting for me to enter the stage, as if I had been part of an Asch conformity experiment and I had finally submitted, as if social influence had won. I couldn't lie; I felt it. My identity shifted, brushed aside internal conflict. I was no longer in search of justification for what I was about to do. This felt right. Peer pressure, the influence exerted by the group, their decadent energy encouraging me to succumb to their attitudes, to adopt their values, to conform to the group, to be more than a Watcher. It held hands with my internal heat, with my ongoing internal struggle, with the dark side of Gemini, and helped to guide me. Not all peer pressure was negative. As the Brit masturbated her well-endowed lover, I eased behind her, slipped into her personal space. It was like a powerful form of foreplay as I felt the cool air in the room breeze across the warmth of my sex, across the heat from my engorged sex, felt myself open up as I squatted over my glorious heels.

•   •   •

I breathed on her damp neck,
blew a stream of air to help cool her, but it only stoked the fire. She trembled and cooed. I cooed along with her, put us in a state of harmony. Nervous, excited, under the eyes of many, I pulled her fallen hair back and blew more air on her skin. She shuddered and began to utter feeble plaintive cries. I caressed her with five fingers, dragged my fingers over her soft skin. I was fire but she was hot coal. My warm hands absorbed her radiance.

Her lover looked at me hungrily.

I acknowledged him, his magnificent lingam, and smiled.

I rubbed her arms, her face, and then squeezed her full breasts. My brown hands squeezed her beautiful alabaster breasts. That taboo thrilled me. Her breasts felt so soft, so malleable. Like the women I had seen earlier, I imitated them, took on a free-loving persona and I pinched her nipples. She tensed and shivered against my body. She stopped moving, like she was overstimulated. Then she smiled another heated smile. She stroked her lover harder, faster. Now she was too excited. I reached for her hand, made her slow down. I didn't want her to hurt him. Lingams were strong, but at the same time, very delicate. My hand was on top of her hand as she masturbated her lover. He looked at me. Amazed. Like I was a cherub. I became her masturbatory assistant for a while. Soon she moved her hand away. I took over. A second man I didn't know, had never met, I held his power and stroked him. He was thick. He was long enough to move from my yoni and tap my heart. His lingam was amazing. It was heavy. The veins were like ropes. I ran my finger down one, made it give, traced its path toward his testicles. It excited me. Touching him. Studying him. Feeling this part of him excited me. The Brit sucked my breasts as I manipulated her lover. I held the strength of another man I'd never met, the hardness of a different stranger, stroked him as a foreign woman sucked my sensitive breasts, sucked one breast and pinched the other nipple, did that until she made me bite my bottom lip, made me tremble, and my surrender added to their moans. Without warning, the Indian man grunted and I sensed that all eyes left us and went to that handsome couple. As the Brit tasted my breasts, as I masturbated her lover, I watched the Indian man march toward orgasm. He glanced and saw me spying on him. We were both bonded by our exhibitionism and voyeurism. Our eyes locked. He smiled a little. I did the same. His chi connected with mine. His muscles tensed. A quickening of his pace and a few short thrusts as his lover gripped his back, patted his back, reassured him that it was okay to go deep, to go mad, to give her his passion the way she liked it.

She moaned, “
Nekni ana sharyaana. Neekni sahrawi. Neekni sahrawi.
”

His partner wanted more, had let loose and turned fey.

The British woman's small hand moved between my legs, her fingers rubbed, massaged my lubricated and enlarged clit. Her hand on my sex, the suddenness of her hand on my sex surprised me, made me as fey as the Indian woman had been. Tingles spread. I felt it rising. Orgasm called my name. I fought it. Pushed it. But her fingers, the musical way she strummed, the perfect way she massaged, it made me set free blissful moans, made me sing so damn loud, made me float, made me lose control. As I moaned, I masturbated her lover, I used my own saliva and burnished him, consoled his erotic agony, and he lamented a coarse song, moaned a potent British tune that felt powerful inside of this love chamber, relished and sang for me, like a well-heated teakettle. He sang and I felt the heat and humidity rise from his pores. And as I massaged the lingam of a liberal stranger, as the assembly watched us, I turned and gave eyes to the Indian man, then to his lover, wanted to see her ascend. She had become used to making love to him in this forum, in a room of people, in a room where she was being watched, evaluated, fantasized about, a little bird spreading her wings, ready to fly away and be free, told him what she wanted, but he pumped a few more times, without rhythm, without urgency, without depth, pumped as a man did after he had shot his load and wished a woman would be still so that he could rest, and he stopped moving.

He was finished. Breathless and done. She wasn't. He had left her in a bad place, a place of desperation, a place that could only be fixed by a balsamaceous orgasm. She moaned and held him, panted, strained, her fire fully ignited. Her lover had come. The faulty design of man had once again intruded upon the pleasure of a woman. Our refractory periods are short, allowed multiple orgasms, don't refrain us from continuing, unless we were truly overstimulated. He slowed, entered that state of drowsy contentment, that state of kef that had him looking as if he had smoked hemp leaves; her hips were still powerful and moving urgently into him, grinding into him as she tried to resurrect his lingam, her yoni begging for her itch to be scratched. She strained, made orgasmic faces, desperate faces, she buried her face in his shoulder and twitched, but I wasn't sure if she came at all. But he had busted his nut.

The British woman, she caught me off guard when her tongue joined in with her fingers. As the bed rotated for all to see, as the room was given perfect views of perfect carnality, I cursed and called out to God. I held her head. She sucked and I gasped, sighed, wailed, screamed, cried. When I caught my wind, I giggled, ashamed for being so vocal, aware of being watched. Others in the crowd giggled too. The Brit was super-sexual. Intimidating. She ran her tongue from top to bottom, licked the length of my sex, found the button again and she sucked it so damn good. Sounds rose. It was a massage on my sexual center. My button was being sucked, each lick making me sing a singsong note. I masturbated a stranger and stared at the Indian couple. I made eye contact with her. But my lover passed her tongue over my flesh, drew her tongue over my engorged clit, moistened me where I was already moist, stroked me with her tongue, tasted me, ate me.

The Indian man, he needed to study me, see how good I felt, see what my lover did to send me to such a state of madness, observe us, learn, see what the fuck he needed to be doing to his beautiful woman, and learn to satisfy her. He needed to study the aristocrat, see how she had let go, see how she was willing to cross so many lines, and learn what only a woman could teach a man about loving a woman. Men should read fiction and handbooks penned by lesbians and learn how to make a woman feel. It took a long time to make some women come, took a lot of foreplay, physical and mental, and he had delivered none. His woman watched me too. Her lover had stroked her, but it was as if it did nothing for her. She watched, suffering version of me, wanting to trade places. She wanted what I was being given. We made eye contact. She stared at me as my connoisseur of yoni showed techniques that she had mastered, as she gave the gentle licking, the simulation to my labia, the way she licked my entire genitalia, how she used the tip of her tongue. She employed slow movements, then fast moments, adjusted to my singsong moans, staying with the chords and riffs that were the strongest. Her tongue stiffened. Men shifted, cursed, more aroused by watching the Brit and me. They were more turned on by our lovemaking than by watching a man and woman. What was taboo excited both the brave and the poltroons. Abnormal desires were life changing.

I stopped stroking him and pulled at the Brit, controlled her, forced her to lie on her side, made her back into that robust lingam, held it and put it inside of her. She caterwauled and the room applauded. That was what they wanted to see, that big dick inside one of us. They wanted to see the absurd. She succumbed to the pressure of the assemblage, to the pressure from her own internal desires, and tried again. Quince Pulgadas didn't move, but she did, she rocked against him, took in only five inches, maybe six, then backed away and eased back into him, making it to about seven inches, tried again, took in a good nine inches before she patted the mattress in absolute surrender. With his girth, with his length, she was done; she was in pain, yet she wiggled like she felt so damn good, like she felt waves of electric tingles blending with a bottomless fire. He had enough left for me to touch, enough to fill me up, so as she moved against him, I held his power, his pride, and I masturbated him from his balls to where they were connected, did my best to enhance their sensations. The position was awkward, so I pushed her away, made Quince get on his back and she squatted over him, again only taking as much as she could handle. Rosetta came over and held her arms, held her so she wouldn't fall and impale herself. The Brit moved up and down, barely taking more than the tip, and as she did, as I had been doing before, I masturbated him, used both hands and massaged up and down his length, the angle perfect for me to stroke him the best that I could. Soon the Brit had had enough, had come again, and she fell away from Quince, crawled back to me, parted my legs with her hands, licked me, sucked me. I reached for Quince Pulgadas again, felt his slickness, felt her juices, and with both hands I masturbated him very fast. Rosetta touched his face, whispered nasty things to him, excited him with the sound of her demure voice and the mental images that came from her provocative words. He pulled at her legs and she didn't resist, she eased up and sat on his face. The Brit ate me and as I masturbated Quince, he ate Rosetta. But not for long. Rosetta stood up, aroused, but struggling to control her fire.

She trembled and stepped back into the crowd. She left me on my own. I looked up and saw me. I saw my face on the screens. I witnessed this scene, watched in awe. I stopped masturbating Quince Pulgadas when my own orgasm demanded my full attention. Leg shaking, I gripped my lover's head, held her head the same way that she had held her lover's head minutes ago, held her and rolled my hips into her face as I fell into habit and once again bit my bottom lip. Quince Pulgadas was now holding his lingam, stroking himself, eyes glazed over, watching us. We smiled at each other. His arousal grinned at mine. He imagined being inside me. The wickedness he saw turned him on more than the blow job he had been receiving.

Quince Pulgadas cursed and inhaled and exhaled with such power that my body absorbed his energy. Electricity was alive in my body. I tingled head to toe and my yoni jumped and cried, sent my eyes back to him. He made the ugliest face. She moved away from me. That aristocratic bitch left me throbbing, abandoned me with my legs shaking, left me with the edges of my voluminous orgasm holding me down, left my yoni screaming for the return of her tongue, and she rushed back to him. She betrayed me, left yoni for lingam, took him inside of her mouth, took as much of his big dick as she could while she stroked him with both hands. His lingam made her dainty hands look like the hands of a child. So many eyes were on me, so many watched me squirm in my misery, my sex open and tender, like a flower bloomed. Eyes. Everywhere I saw eyes. Blue eyes. Light brown eyes. Gray eyes. Dark brown eyes. Sea-green eyes were there too. They had been there the entire session, only I didn't see them, couldn't see him in the wealth of the crowd. Everything was a blur. Underneath this lighting, eyes became shining stars. In the dimly lit room I heard faint house music, but all I saw was a constellation of lust-filled eyes. And the prettiest and most hypnotic pair of eyes stood over me.

The handsome man from Curaçao watched me. He held hands with a gorgeous woman, tall like a model, at least six feet of woman wearing skyscraper heels, black bondage platform sandals that made her taller than the handsome man. She was the hue of eroticism and elegance. Her Afro was as large as it was stunning. I reached for her husband. I reached for him in the desperate and demanding way the Brit had reached for me. Energy magnified the experience in the way of a drug called ecstasy. I understood her frustration, understood how deep she was in her pleasure. I understood how absolute arousal had made anything possible. As eyes looked down on my misery, as my energy radiated, I reached. He looked at the woman at his side, at his wife, sought permission, and she let his hand go, encouraged him toward me.