It was her birthday. Kristina could have anything she wanted. She knew what she wanted. She called her friend Megan and told her. Megan was a very successful photographer, and owed Kristina a huge favor. Megan said OK. All Kristina would have to do was be home at 8 p.m.
At 7 p.m. Kristina took a cold bottle of Chablis into her bathroom and slipped into a hot, freshly drawn bubble bath. The hot water felt wonderful. It also dilated her circulatory system. The Chablis quickly relaxed her. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and thought of the pleasures that awaited her.
At 7:30 she got out and dried off in a luxuriously thick bath towel. She looked at herself in the full wall mirror. Her body, she thought, looked good. In her 47 years it had seen wear -- three children, two husbands, a couple of operations. But she was still in shape.
She turned around to look at her ass -- perhaps her best feature. It was full and female, but not too full. No longer taut, but sure not slack. She let her eyes follow down her legs. Dancer's legs. Firm, smooth, long, elegant, tan. She turned around. She looked at her pubic hair. Full and brown and bushy. Her sex was totally invisible in the mass of curls. She reached down, found the outer lips of her sex and gently caressed them. She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. She wondered when and how tonight she would next be touched there.
Kristina's breasts were small, rounded, and tipped with very large areolae -- the size of saucers in a child's tea set. Her breasts were very sensitive, especially right at her nipples. She brushed her nipples lightly with her fingertips and a charge flew through her, as she knew it would. It never failed. Some current of electrical nerves ran from her breasts through her torso to her sex and back.
She finished drying, then dusted lightly with powder and touched herself with perfume -- Desire -- there, there, there, and there. She put on a pair of peach-colored panties -- silk bikini panties with lace appliques -- and a matching silk brassiere that opened in front. The bra gave her breasts no support at all, it was just a pretty, pretty covering.
Over this she drew a Japanese kimono -- also in silk. A border of dark green encircled multi-colored scenes of feudal Japan. Geishas, warriors, dragons, temples covered the robe. She pulled it closed with a dark green sash.
One large glass of Chablis was left. Kristina took that with her and went downstairs. She settled into a comfortable armchair, and waited.
At precisely 8 p.m. the doorbell rang and the front door opened, just as Megan had promised. In came three of the most gorgeous men Kristina had ever seen. All were carrying flowers and gifts.
The first man walked directly over to her. He was about 5-9, very tan, very fit, maybe in his 40s, with dark brown, nearly black, Gallic eyes. His brown hair was thinning on top. He looked like a boxer. His nose had clearly been broken, at least once. It was crooked and flattened, like Jean-Paul Belmondo's. He wore a plain, well-fitted, dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a brown, blue, and yellow paisley tie, nicely knotted.
He stood in front of Kristina and bowed slightly, "Madame, pour toi," and handed her a bouquet of seven perfect wine-red roses. He looked at her for a moment, from toes to head. He smiled in admiration. "Madame, tu es magnifique," and he kissed her hand.
"I have for you," he added, "another present as well," motioning to a gift box he had set on a table, "but it must wait till later. My name is Paul." The box was just large enough, Kristina imagined, for a diamond tiara.
The next man was a very tall, very strong, very black African. He looked like a picture Kristina had seen in a book of vanishing tribes. He was about 6-8, perhaps in his 30s, with darting, burning brown eyes, tinged with yellow; his head was shaven smooth. He approached Kristina and spoke with a rich British accent.
"Kristina, I present you with these flowers." The flowers were a huge bouquet of purple statice. "You are very lovely. These flowers are not as lovely as you. I am called Augustine."
Augustine was wearing a loose-fitting charcoal grey jacket, and beneath it a light gray turtleneck jersey. He smelled wonderfully of musk and incense. He too had a gift box, this one small, like a jeweler's box. He told Kristina that later it would be hers.
The third man was a young blond. Maybe still a teenager. California beach boy looks, drop-dead handsome. "Hi," he said, as he walked over to Kristina, "I'm Eric; this is for you." He handed her a single snow white lily and bent over to kiss her lightly on the cheek. As he did so, his hand brushed lightly across her breast. She felt that old, quick trickle of electricity flow directly to the place between her legs.
She looked right into his eyes. They were limpid blue. A surfer's eyes. He smelled of ocean air. He moved back away from her. He too had a gift box in his hands. "This is for you too, but you can't have it now," said Eric.
Then, briefly, there was an awkward moment of silence. Kristina started to say something to break the silence, but she couldn't think what. Then the African spoke. "We have another box, just outside; Eric and Paul will bring it in. It has some refreshments for us all."
They carried in a large black footlocker. It opened into a small bar and buffet. There was iced champagnge, Scotch and Perrier to drink. There were small trays of oysters, artichokes, caviar, toasted bread, strawberries, cracked crab, chocolate.
"If there is anything you want, anything at all, you have only to ask," said Augustine, handing Kristina a cut-glass flute of champagne and placing a small plate of food next to her.
"I would like," said Kristina, after taking a long sip of the champagne, "for you and Paul to undress each other."
Augustine and Paul put down their tumblers of Scotch and moved opposite Kristina. Paul unbuttoned Augustine's jacket, then his own and removed them. Augustine undid the plain silver buckle on Paul's belt, then drew the brown leather belt out of its loops. He handed the belt to Kristina. She smelled the fresh leather, then coiled the belt and dropped it next to her on the floor, where Eric was now sitting.
Paul undid the buttons of Augustine's loose, baggy parachute slacks. As he let go of the last button, the pants pillowed to the floor. Augustine was wearing no underpants. Kristina saw, for the first time in her life, a black man's sex. He had a mass of tightly curled black pubic hair, and a thick, brown uncircumcised cock. It was not yet erect. Beneath it bunched a tight full scrotum.
Kristina could not take her eyes off his crotch. She did not see him lower Paul's pants and reveal the Frenchman's tight tan bikini briefs. Her breath was taken away. She took another sip of champagne, draining the glass. Finally, "Turn around, Paul," she said. He turned to face her. A great knot of sex bulged in front of him, straining against the tan cotton fabric.
Kristina looked at the two men, both now nearly naked. She knew what she was going to ask them to do, but she hesitated. While she did, she saw Eric rise to refill her champagne glass. As he did, he once more brushed against her breasts, then sat again at her feet. When he sat this time, he took her feet in his hands and began to rub them gently.
Kristina took another sip of the wine, then told Paul and Augustine to face each other and finish stripping entirely. When they were naked, she told them to move closer together, till they were only a foot or so apart. Both men were very muscular. Paul's muscles were in tight, wiry ropes; the black man's were smooth, round, firm tubes.
Neither man's cock was yet hard, though both were starting to engorge. Kristina told them to look at her. She untied the sash of her kimono and pulled back its halves, revealing her peach underclothes. She looked back at them.
Their cocks were bobbing now, stiffening. Soon they were hard and fully extended. She was somehow surprised to see that Paul's cock was longer, by a measurable margin, than Augustine's, but also noticeably thinner. Augustine's cock was thick and brown and its tip bobbed now out of its foreskin just inches from Paul's.
Kristina felt Eric's soft gentle hand stroking now her legs, her calves. She had not spoken to him yet. She thought she might not have to all night. He seemed to know instinctively what she wanted him to do.
"Move closer together now," Kristina said to the pair. "I want your cocks to touch." They moved slowly forward. Finally the tips of their phalluses touched. Kristina thought she saw a thin blue spark of electricity at the linking. She felt the same spark between her legs.
The men stood there for a moment, hard cocks bobbing and touching. Eric's
hand was now caressing her thighs. "Paul," she said, "I want you to kneel
and suck Augustine's cock. I want you to make love to it, to his thighs,
his belly, his balls. But I do not want you to make him come. Do not come,
Augustine. The first time you come tonight, I want it to be in me." By
Vincent Newman