Is Capricious the Word?

But he was talking shop, speaking of the writing of Somerset Maugham in the South Pacific and he was discussing it with me. He too was in a robe—we all were, having swum in the pool nude before dinner and eaten in robes at the dining table afterward—and Sandra had his opened at the waist, had pulled his cock out, and was making it hard—and thick and long—with her hand. But he was speaking with me, looking at me. He obviously knew he was making out with Sandra, as he was thumbing her nipples and running his fingers into the folds of her cunt—and he was getting hard from her attentions. But he was talking with me on technical issues of Maugham's writing and was carrying on a perfectly erudite conversation with me.

And he was looking at me with "that look"—seducing me and already dominating me.

I gave up on being guarded and privately living my need. I brushed my robe open and openly stroked my cock. Overby obviously saw me doing so but went right on discussing Maugham with me and fondling Sandra.

It was maddening. We were operating on two different levels here. We supposedly were here to enrich Sandra's literary poetry efforts and yet every time I was with Overby he was concentrating on what enriched my prose writing. Which of us interested Overby in literary terms enough to bring us here and sponsor us—Sandra or me? On the other hand, it was Sandra he was fucking, even though he looked at me with lust too. I hadn't even known if he fucked men until now. Now as his eyes fucked me from across the room, I knew he fucked men too. I hadn't known if he was straight or bi? Did he just appreciate beauty wherever he saw it? Earlier in the evening, when I had emerged from the pool naked, he had remarked on the beauty of my body.

"Such beautiful proportions," he'd said. "Good definition in the chest and arms, but so willowy and trim below. I don't know if I've seen a young man with such slim hips—and the hollows between your buttocks and your thighs—so sexy. And yet you're hung. I think you are right to trim your pubes in a close-cropped curly V like that. But the slimness of your hips . . . I don't know how . . ."

He didn't complete the sentence because Sandra had chimed in with, "How about the wideness of my hips, love? The earth mother look. I could bear your triplets."

"Not unless we weren't careful and were being very foolish," he had answered, with a laugh, turning his attention from me, which quite evidently was what Sandra wanted. "Although you bring such hot flashes and capriciousness upon me, that I could see us overlooking something important. And, yes, your hips give me no pause in your being able to take a bull like me. You do handle the thickness of me quite well. And I am a bull, am I not?"

He didn't say it, but he didn't have to. He was wondering if my passage, because of my unusually narrow waist and hips, could take the cock of a man bull—or at least he was alluding to his consideration of giving it a try.

"Yes, you a bull of a man," she'd said, pulling him on top of her on a pool bed. He proceeded to enter her and fuck her, leaving me to dry off and find a pool bed to stretch out on several empty beds from where Sandra had her face turned to me, making no effort to cover the flash in her eyes and grimaced smile on her lips each time he thrust up into her. Making a point, I'm sure, before he finished, he had changed to fucking her in the ass channel, and Sandra took that in stride. I harbored the thought that that too was a signal to me of what he was contemplating doing with me.

What word had he used? Capricious? Yes, that was it. Which one of us was he most interested in I had wondered earlier at the pool? And was he really interested in me at all? He had been on the cusp of musing whether a slim-hipped man like me had a channel that could handle a cock like his—he was that close to declaring that he wanted to fuck me and yet he had capriciously veered away. Had he been teasing me? Or was he just not really interested and was cruelly enjoying himself cuckolding me? Surely he knew that Sandra and I didn't care what each of us did with others sexually. Or was he challenging me on that point? It's true that some of our discussions on story themes had been wrapped around the concept of self-denial on sexual preferences and toleration. He, of course, was the hedonist in word and deed. But me? Did I even know what I really felt about these matters? Was that what he was trying to pull out of me?

I now knew, the three of us sitting in front of the fire in his living room, that, yes, he wanted to fuck me—that he would fuck me. Both of us knew he would.

The two left me for a while in the living room then. Overby picked Sandra up and carried her out of the living room. But he only took her as far as the dining room, which opened from the living room. He laid her on her belly on the dining table, her legs dangling toward the floor. He brushed her kimono full open off to the side, exposing her body. His robe remained on his back, but fluttering at his side, the two looking like some sort of gross bird of prey, while he hunched over her and fucked her in the ass again on the top of the table. As he fucked her, he grasped her flowing hair in his hand and jerked her head back into his chest, cruelly arched her back. This just made her laugh.

As Overby fucked Sandra, he turned his face from her. He was looking back into the living room, at me. The lust in his eyes was obvious. Was it for the woman he was fucking on the table or was it for the young man sprawled on the sectional in the living room, openly masturbating and watching him fuck the woman?

He wouldn't commit, which angered and frustrated me. Turning from them, not wanting to hear Sandra's exclamations on how big he was and how well he was fucking her, I picked up the novel that Overby had taken from the library after dinner and brought into the living room to discuss with me. It was Maugham's Moon and Sixpence treatment of Paul Gauguin escaping to Tahiti to paint. I stopped stroking myself off and became engrossed in the book, looking for points that Overby and I had discussed, and so lost knowledge of when the copulating on the dining table had ceased and the two had departed the living areas—or, indeed, how long it had been since Overby had returned to the living room, taken the book from my hands, stretched out on top of me on the sofa, taken my lips with his, and begun stroking my body inside my robe with his long, sensitive fingers.

He was stroking my hips with both hands. "Such slim hips," he murmured. "I wonder—"

"Do it," I hissed. "I've seen your cock. I can take your cock. I want to take your cock. Fucking do it."

He did it. He carried me over to the bearskin rug, murmuring, "Forgive the cliché," and stretched out over me in reverse. We sixty-nined each other throbbingly hard and then he moved me to my knees, my chest and cheek to the fur of the rug, my eyes staring into the smoldering, dying fire in the fireplace. Overby mounted high on my hips, finding he did indeed fit inside me, forcing himself inside, controlling my writhing with strong hands holding my hips in position. Out and I sighed, in and I groaned. Then again and again, me stretching, opening up fully to the cock, becoming his.

He fucked me in ever quicker and deeper, fully accommodated as I rocked back to meet the thrusts, to a mutual ejaculation. He fit inside me the perfect way—stretching me and rubbing every surface inside me as he stroked, causing my passage walls to ripple over his shaft and try to grasp it as it forced its way inside, pulling the cum out of me. My spirits soared as he kept mumbling that, "Yes, it fits fine. So sweet, so tight." He continued to be obsessed with the slimness of my hips, holding and stroking them with his hands as he fucked me.

He left me there without comment and presumably went to bed. Sandra wasn't in her bed when I went by her room. She presumably was upstairs in his bed. The capriciousness of it all was not lost on me.

Overby was in his office, working, when I got up before sunrise. Sandra already was on a pool bed at the pool, alternating between scribbling verse and filling in crossword puzzles. She had nothing unusual to say to me, either, although she did stare daggers at me as I passed by her on my way to diving into the pool, nude. So, she did know that Overby had fucked me as well as her the previous night. She still had the edge, though, because she slept in his bed.

At sunrise, I went down to the beach, deliberately, knowing that Bram had moved to the balcony to drink his coffee and that he would watch me moving down the beach, naked, into the sea and the rising sun. He wasn't the only one who could seduce. When I came out of the surf, he was there, sitting on a towel on the sand, naked and watching me rise out of the sea. He fucked me on the towel, me on my back under him, Him cradling my neck with one hand and stroking my cock with the other, as he lay between my bent and spread legs, moving his cock in and out of me in a deep fuck, whispering how beautiful my body was and, once again, his amazement that one with such narrow hips could take what he had to give.

After lunch, where Overby and I took up our discussion of Maugham where we'd left off the previous night and Sandra worked on a crossword puzzle as she ate, Overby took her to bed in his bedroom. The sound of him fucking her good sent me out of the house, naked, down to the beach, and far enough into the sea that I couldn't hear them.

When I had swum back to the surf line and rose from the sea, naked, I saw that it wasn't a totally private beach after all. Only from this perspective could I see that wooden stairs came down to the beach from the houses on either side of the soaring bird house. And I wasn't the only one on the beach either. Standing over my oversized beach towel was an Adonis. He was over six feet tall, several inches taller than I was. He wasn't much older than I was, probably in his mid-twenties. His body was magnificent, muscular, covered with fine, black curls. He had a close-cropped beard and loose, shoulder-length black hair. His eyes were a contrasting light color—pale blue or hazel—and his smile was sensual. He was tattooed, barbed-wire bands on his biceps, a swirl of a colorful design half buried in black curls on his left pec, and the head of a snake about to strike at his navel, its tail wrapped around an extraordinarily long, if not overly thick, erection. He was, of course, naked.

"I am Jarrod," he said in a melodic voice. "I saw you enter the sea from my deck, and I couldn't help but come down. You are a beautiful young man—very sexy. Bram told me you would take cock, that he intended to fuck you. I saw you after sunrise too, with Bram. He was fucking you, so he was right—that you take cock."

It wasn't a question, so I didn't respond. But then he made it an explicit question—more a statement.

"I want you to take my cock. If you will, stay. If you won't, wave me off and I'll leave."

I still didn't respond, either way—which, of course, really was a response and an acquiescence. He motioned for me to lie down on the towel. I was about to say no and head for the stairs to Overby's house when I saw Overby himself at the top of the wooden stairs to his house. He was naked and there was a towel over his arm. I reasoned that he was coming down to be on the beach with me.

I was hit with a flare of anger and frustration. His capriciousness was frustrating to me. He didn't declare himself or ask permission for anything. He just took what he wanted when he wanted it. I don't know what he wanted from me in relationship to what he took from Sandra. Yes, I was jealous. Yes, I wanted to strike out at Bram and make him choose me.

Jarrod was standing over me, hands on hips, completely open to me in his nakedness. He was smiling. "Do I look good to you?" He asked. "I am horny. Will you take my cock?"

Without voicing an answer, I went down on my knees in front of this Jarrod god, licked around the curl of the snake's tail, and took his cock inside my mouth. After I had sucked him hard, we lay stretched out side by side on towel, exploring each other's bodies with our hands, until Jarrod coaxed me onto my back and stroked my inner thighs.

"Open your legs to me. Let me put it in you."

I spread my legs for him, bending my legs, and planting my feet on the towel. He rolled over on top of me, and pushed his knees under my buttocks.

I lay there, my buttocks elevated on his thighs, my torso reclining on the towel in front of him, my fingers buried in the curls on his chest, and my head arched back, watching Bram pause at the top of the cliff, while Jarrod slowly made the snake's tail disappear inside me. He stroked my narrow hips lightly with his fingers while he fucked me.

"Nice, very nice," he murmured. "And tight, but you took it all."

We rocked against each other and I moaned, as his shaft reached far, far up inside me, and he fucked me slowly—and totally.

When we'd both come, I looked again to the top of the cliff and Bram was gone. Jarrod was still here, though. Without withdrawing from me, he leaned his face down to mine and we kissed. I embraced him and stroked his shoulder blades with my fingers, until I felt the snake tail coming to life again. Then I moved my hands to his buttocks and grasped him close to me.

"There's more," he whispered.

"Yes, oh yes!" I cried out to the top of the cliff as I arched my back and he began to stroke inside me again. He turned me onto all fours, mounted my ass, and fucked me in doggie style, allowing him to push in to the root. It was then that I noticed we weren't alone.

Overby wasn't at the top of the stairs when I looked because he had come down to the sand and was sitting on his towel, watching Jarrod fuck me. He didn't sit there for long, though. He rose, positioned himself behind Jarrod, spiked him, and took over the control of thrusts, his thrusts inside Jarrod's ass determining Jarrod's thrusts inside me.

Damn him and his presumption of control over everything, I thought. Jarrod took his cock without objection or flinching. It was obvious that Bram had mastered Jarrod before and been given leave to do it at will.

After a while, Jarrod pulled out and disappeared and it was just Overby mounted on me, stroking my hips with his fingers, murmuring, "Such sweet, slim hips," and slow pumping my passage.

He murmured, "I want to see you taking it," in my ear and turned me on his cock onto my back. He was hunched over me, but rising on his knees, lifting my pelvis high, my legs dangling toward the sand, unable to set down. He went in deep, his face hovering over mine, capturing my eyes. He was huge inside me and I gasped and panted, willing my undulating channel walls to open for him and moaning deeply when they did. But he held there, deep, as I had done with Sandra, and I whimpered as she did. "Do it; finish me," I moaned, my eyes tearing up. He held until I was babbling my need, and then he put his dick in motion, causing my passage walls to ripple on the pumping, stretching shaft; quickly brought me off, my eyes flashing and my mouth gaping open in an unverbalized scream of passion and pleasure; and followed that efficiently with his own finish.

He had shown me who was in control, who dominated. But I would let him inside me whenever he wanted to be. We both knew that.

* * * *

The mail had come when I regained the ability to move and went back up to the house. Jarrod had left after Bram had taken over the pumping of me down on the beach and Sandra was up in the master bedroom, taking a long bath. She called out to me as I came back into the house, pulled on a pair of shorts in my bedroom, and then roamed around the house locating everyone. The cook was in the kitchen, working on something. The back door to the laundry room and garage that jutted out on the land side of the house was open and I located the houseman covering the maid from behind over a rumbling washing machine and pulled away from that quickly. The mail was on a table in the foyer.

Included in the post was a letter from my agent, which only now was catching up with me. I'd sold a second book and the hefty—for me—advance check for $25,000 was included. I was ecstatic. With the money I still had from the advance on the first book, I now had some independence. The letter from the agent spoke of negotiations for a deal of three additional books.

I went directly into Overby's office to tell him of my good news. His response was as self-centered as I could possibly imagine. While telling me how wonderful that was for me, he said we should celebrate. He pulled my face down to his for a kiss, grabbed my hand and moved it inside the robe he was wearing and onto his cock. "Kneel and suck me off," he murmured.

I barely heard him, though, spinning around and racing upstairs to inform Sandra. Her way of congratulating me was to pull me into the bath, lock lips with me, and grab my cock. We did fuck on occasion, and this was one of those occasions—if only as my reaction to Bram's assumption I was knuckling under to him whenever he wanted me to, although, of course, I had. Water sloshed around in the tub, as she raised her legs and hooked them on the side of the tub and I pushed my knees under her buttocks and spiked and fucked her.

Overby appeared at the bathroom door and watched me hump Sandra and ejaculate. I then came out of the tub and raced to my room to compose a letter back to the agent. As I wrote, I heard the water sloshing around in the tub overhead again. Capricious Bram and my equally capricious wife were celebrating for me by having a go at each other. I paused for a moment to be frustrated by the uncertainty of the sexual tension in this bird-on-the-wing house—including, I now thought, the domestic staff. Somehow I'd thought the maid was the cook and houseman's daughter. But then again maybe she was. Everything was fickle and topsy-turvy here.

* * * *

My head was spinning—either from what I'd smoked or what I'd drunk or both. I was standing at the deck rail of Clea and Jarrod's house, next door to Bram's, and looking out to the Cook Straits, up into the stars overhead in the clear night air, and north to the glow of Wellington, New Zealand, in the distance, across a bay. The man standing close to me and towering over me was an older, a little-heavier-than-fully desirable French gentleman—although I strongly suspected he was no gentleman—who had told me his name was Georges and that he was a sculptor and that he wanted to fuck and sculpt me—or sculpt and fuck me. I was confused on his intended order. I was standing, facing out at the rail. He was standing beside me, facing me. He had his left arm around my chest, his fingers stroking my side not far under my armpit—my arms were spread, my hands gripping the rail. The fingers of his right hand were stroking my right hip.

For some reason all I was wearing were bikini briefs. I was barefoot. He was in baggy shorts and an open godawful vivid colored Hawaiian shirt. He was hard; I could feel him pressing that to my waist on the left side. Why was I in bikini briefs? There was a party going on around me. Oh, yes, I thought. The striptease on Clea and Jarrod's dining room table when I was three sheets to the wind. I was celebrating my literary independence in style. One published novel could very well be a fluke. Two published novels and a contract offer for three more wasn't.

I'd thought I'd be alone in the bird house this evening. Overby was taking Sandra to a poetry reading at Massey University in Wellington. They were offering her a visiting scholar position for her sabbatical year here and he was introducing her to some of the faculty. I had not been invited. Yes, I was a bit ticked about that—until the letter and advance had come through, and then I was glad I wasn't going. I was jealous enough not to want to spend an evening where Sandra was the focal point when I'd just entered the professional novelist ranks.