Menage a Trois Ch. 12

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Sandy tells Steve of her night of lust with Liam and Fiona.
7.6k words
4.71
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Part 12 of the 13 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 12/21/2016
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Bluepen451
Bluepen451
1,398 Followers

As in Chapter 11, Steve is the narrator in materials in regular type and Sandy is the narrator in materials in italics.

*

I awoke the next morning to the most delicious sensation. My naked wife had pushed the sheet aside and was on her knees next to me leaning forward sucking on my rapidly growing cock. The sun was shining in through a window so I knew it was well past the time when she would normally leave for work.

"Oh," I groaned. "That's a lovely way to wake up. Is this a privilege of being the spouse of a newly-anointed partner of KPMI?"

She laughed and pulled back from my cock. She had leaned back so she was sitting on her haunches with both hands wrapped around my now fully-erect cock. "No silly. It's just Saturday, and new partners don't work on Saturdays, at least not the first couple of Saturdays while they are busy fucking their spouse's brains out." She was stroking my prick with a twisting motion. The sensation was fabulous.

"But don't get used to it," she continued. "Day after tomorrow is Monday and it's back to the grind."

"Oh, you mean fucking strangers in the stairwells of London office buildings?"

"It was just one stranger in the stairwell of one London office building. The rest of the time I was working—well, most of the time."

"Oh, is that all?" I asked

"Now don't get jealous."

Now it was my turn to laugh. "Not to worry. I'm not. All I really want is to hear all the raunchy details of what happened when you met Liam's wife. Did you seduce her?"

She chuckled and rubbed her palm, coated with my slippery precum over the head of my cock.

"Oh, fuck! You're going to make me cum."

"I know. That's what I want. I want to see you squirt." She resumed her twisting stroking of my cock, using the precum she had scraped off the head of my cock for additional lube. Then she slowed her pace, deliberately holding me back.

"But first, I'm going to tell you about my evening with Liam and Fiona, and the others."

"Others? There were others?"

"Ummm. Yes. Let me tell you about it while I stroke this delicious-looking cock."

I lay back and let her tell her story while she massaged my prick.

I got to Le Gavroche a few minutes early. I explained to the maître d' that I was looking for Mr. Rutledge, but that I was perhaps a bit early. He confirmed, without looking at his book, that Mr. Rutledge was expected tonight and then said, "Let me take you to his table," as he turned to lead me into the dining room. My my, I thought. Being an actuary must pay better than being an accountant if he has his own table at Le Gavroche. This is one of the finest restaurants in London.

The table was a modest-sized oblong set in a semi-booth, upholstered in a pleated, soft green velvet that matched the color of the upholstered walls; the table cloth and napkins a dazzling white cotton draped to the floor before the table and stopping short of the seat behind the table. It was set for three people tonight arrayed across the velvet seat, although I noticed that the other tables like it were set for two. Clearly my presence at Mr. Rutledge's table was anticipated. This was an establishment that did not miss a detail, but then I guess that is how a restaurant gets two Michelin Stars.

Uncertain as to which setting to claim in advance of my host's arrival, I perched a bit nervously on one end of the seat. It wasn't like me to be this nervous in a social situation, but today had been more than a bit unusual. It isn't every day that you seduce a stranger in a business meeting, have hurried sex with him in the building stairwell on a meeting break, and then have him invite you to dinner with his wife. How much had he told her, I wondered? He said he had told her about us, but had he really? Had he told her what we had done in the stairwell and what I had done to entice him there? If so, what was her reaction? Were we going to have a pleasant dinner or was Fiona going to show up and create a scene in this classy restaurant? Or were the three of us going to dance around the issue all evening without acknowledging the elephant in the room?

I badly needed a drink to calm my frazzled nerves. I was unconsciously tapping my foot behind the drapery of the tablecloth as I waited. A waiter soon appeared and took my order for a cocktail, which was greatly appreciated given my nervousness about meeting Liam's wife. He returned promptly with my gin and tonic and I inhaled a good deal of it in a single gulp, thinking I should have ordered straight gin.

A few minutes after my drink arrived I saw Liam and Fiona arrive at the maître d' station. They were warmly greeted, without any reference to the reservations book, and promptly led to the table. Liam still looked "tweedy" but was dressed in a different three-piece tweed suit than he had worn earlier. They were greeted by several of the serving staff as they walked across the room, and they took the time to return the greeting in kind. They were clearly well known at Le Gavroche—"regulars" as we would say back in Manhattan.

Fiona's appearance was not at all what I had expected, not that I had a basis for any expectation since Liam had told me nothing about her beyond her name. It's odd how sometimes you can develop a detailed image of a person before you meet them. Part of it, of course was her very, very British name. I was expecting a somewhat plump and short middle-aged English woman with soft brown locks, and rosy cheeks, dressed . . . well I don't know how I expected her to dress, but not as she was.

Instead the woman who walked in with Liam was a quite tall, at least 5-11, taller than me and slightly taller than Liam. She was very lean, with an olive complexion and black hair pulled severely back from her face. There was a lengthy braid hanging down her back nearly to her waist. She wore little make-up. Her cheekbones were high and her face thin, as though she had been a fashion model in her youth. I guessed by the tiny eye wrinkles that she was likely in her early forties, perhaps a few years younger than Liam. She had an elegant walk that further suggested a modeling background.

Her dress was long and all black, with a plunging neckline. When she turned to speak to one of the waiters, I saw that the dress was backless, and that there was a slit up one side that went nearly to her hip, exposing as she walked a long, shapely leg. Her shoes were flats, heels being unnecessary at her height. Her bust was perhaps a bit bigger than mine. The sides of each breast were exposed by the plunging neckline of the dress. Her jewelry consisted of a heavy silver and turquoise bracelet and a silver thunderbird hanging from a fine silver chain. There was no wedding ring set. Her face was severe as she walked across the floor, but when she greeted someone her smile was broad and, well, the best word is electric. It lit up the room. The clothing style was vintage Georgia O'Keefe, but with more skin exposed. And then there was that occasional Julia Roberts smile that offset the severity of the dress style.

So, I thought, Liam has a trophy wife. I was far from correct in that conclusion. In reality Liam and Fiona were equals who managed their relationship with a great deal of individual freedom and independence.

I stood as they approached. Liam leaned forward and bussed me on each check. It seemed a very formal greeting from a man who had been fucking my brains out five hours earlier. I responded in kind, feeling I better follow his lead.

After he introduced Fiona, she stepped forward and kissed each of my cheeks. But unlike Liam, she pushed her body forward and pulled me to her with her arms so her chest pressed firmly against mine. "Hmmmm. Perhaps not as flat chested as I thought," I said to myself. Instead of pulling promptly away as I expected, she held me for a moment. I felt her warm soft lips touch my neck just below my ear, and then she whispered, "I know what you did with Liam today."

I pulled back and looked at her. She was smiling at me. Not with her light-up-the-room smile she had used on the wait staff as she walked in, but a smaller softer smile, which in combination with her eyes seemed a "come hither" look. She held my eyes with her gaze for a moment, and then she turned and walked around Liam to the other side of the table. Liam gestured in a gentlemanly fashion for me to slide in first and I suddenly found myself sitting between the two of them, their hips warm against mine on either side of me. "What have I gotten into?" I asked myself.

A waiter approached and took drink orders, including a refresher for mine. I still felt a need to dampen my nervousness. When the drinks arrived, they were followed by the kind of very normal chit-chat expected among people meeting for the first time. I learned that Liam had become an actuary because he thought accounting too simple (I repressed my inclination to disagree) and that he had been doing that work for 20 years since he graduated from Oxford. I suspected that he had other interests beyond the manipulation of life expectancy tables and stochastic models of pension costs and portfolio earnings, but I couldn't seem to get further into him, and Fiona turned out to be a much more interesting person.

She had barely finished high school in Argentina where she had grown up before she moved to London.

"You don't have a Spanish accent," I said.

"Ah," she responded. "My father was the British Ambassador and my mother, well, she was Argentine, but she didn't hang around long after I was born. I was raised in the British embassy by a nanny. When the Brits and Argentines got into it over the Falklands, Dad and I popped off to London. The war didn't last long, and Dad went back to Buenos Aires. But I had already started modeling so I stayed in London. I never met my real mum."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Oh, don't be," she said. "The life of an embassy brat's not a bad one. You get an education, see a lot of whatever country you're posted to, and when you grow up a bit, the parties with the other embassy kids are great. Argentina is lovely. I so loved horseback riding on the Pampas. I might still be there but for the stupid fight the Argentines picked over the Falklands. The Argentines are lovely people, but they are pathetic when it comes to governance. I think it's all the Italians in the gene pool. They are a lot of fun, but they keep the Germans from running the country efficiently."

"And you're still a model?"

"Oh no, I gave that up after a few years. Unless you are a superstar, it doesn't pay well, and you meet some of the nastiest people in that line of work."

"Nasty?"

"Well, as a model you are considered beautiful by society's standards and a pack of models always attract men who want, well you know what they want, but it's not something we should discuss in this lovely restaurant."

"Oh. Yes, I know exactly what you mean."

"I should think you do with your looks," she said.

Now it was my turn for a small smile. I didn't intend it to be seductive, but I think perhaps it came across that way.

"So what came next after modeling," I asked.

"Art school."

"So you're an artist now?"

"Well, yes, but that took a while to become productive, I mean to produce art that would sell. In between, I did a lot of things. I even drove a limo. Most of them though traded off my looks."

"Yes you did, my dear," interjected Liam. "That's how I met you, at Le Club."

"Le Club?" I asked looking at each of them in turn with uncertainty.

"I was a hostess at a very upscale swingers club," Fiona explained. "It's just a few blocks from here."

"A hostess?" I asked.

"Yes," Howard responded. "Fiona was the gorgeous young woman who greeted members when they arrived, explained the club's facilities and rules to new members and guests, helped people find their clothes and other things when they were ready to leave, and generally provided some degree of order in the Bacchanalian revel that prevailed most evenings. You could always tell who the hostess was, because she was the one with her clothes on."

"I see," I said, fascinated, but not sure I should ask for more.

Fiona was about to say something further when Chef Roux came out of the kitchen to supplant the waiter with a lengthy description of the evening's specials. He greeted the Rutledges effusively, leaning forward to kiss Fiona on both cheeks, before launching into his description of the specials and how they were prepared. I was impressed that the Chef and owner of a restaurant of this stature would come out of the kitchen to personally describe the specials. I had been to this restaurant on a couple of prior occasions and never seen the Chef. I was clearly in the company of important customers.

While Chef Roux prattled on about his specials and the details of their preparation, I was thinking about my impression of Fiona. I liked her. She was a beautiful woman who was willing to be frank about the value of her appearance without being vain about it. Too many beautiful women are either vain about their appearance, convinced that somehow that makes them a better person than their mousy cousins, or self-deprecating, unwilling to acknowledge their beauty and to take fair advantage of it. I liked to think of myself as someone who avoided both pitfalls, and it appeared Fiona was also.

Chef Roux finished his greetings and descriptions and a few minutes later our waiter returned to take our orders. Dinner was, as you would expect at Le Gavroche, excellent, as were the wines selected by Liam. The conversation flowed—my accounting career; my husband's art, including, to their amusement, his habit of sleeping with his models; Fiona's art (wildly abstract and reasonably successful in the London market); Steven's upcoming initial show; my work and Liam's; and a host of other things, but the subject of my afternoon tryst with Liam wasn't hinted at, nor was the subject of Le Club mentioned again until near the end of dinner.

Liam excused himself to go to the men's room, leaving Fiona and me at the table. That was when I felt her hand on my thigh. It was the first hint of anything sexual all evening, but there was no reason to doubt her intentions. "Did you enjoy my husband this afternoon?" Fiona asked as she caressed my thigh.

I was silent for a moment as I considered my response. Was this the point in the evening when she would throw the contents of her wine glass in my face and shriek, "You bitch"? Or would she simply tell me that if I was going to fuck her husband, I should also fuck her? Only one way to find out.

"Yes," I responded, "but I think the concrete stairwell landing on the twentieth floor of the office building was not the most confortable place, and there wasn't a lot of time, so we were a bit hurried."

Now her hand moved to the inside of my thigh and was pushing my dress up towards the top of my leg. She chuckled a bit. "Yes, I can imagine. Actually Liam can be a marvelous lover, especially in a week-day assignation in a five star hotel when you have both allocated plenty of time to enjoy yourself. The forbidden nature of such an assignation—playing hooky from the rest of your life and meeting your lover for an avenue of forbidden lasciviousness, I think it brings out the best in him. I know it does in me. You should really try it."

"I'd like to," I said, followed by a shallow gasp as her hand reached my pussy and pressed against it through the light cloth of my dress and panties. "I mean, if you don't mind."

"Liam and I have what I believe you Yanks call an open marriage. We live together, but we both have our other dalliances, and then, of course, there is Le Club. Liam has continued his membership there since we married. It can be . . . very enjoyable." She continued to press on my sex. I had let my legs fall open so as to improve her access. She had very talented fingers, putting just the right pressure in just the right spots. The effect was as if my clothing wasn't even there.

"And what about you and . . . did you say Steven?"

"Yes, Steven."

"Do you have an open relationship?" she pressed on my pussy again. The sensation was delicious. I wasn't close to cumming, but I was enjoying the most delicious warmth throughout my torso.

I considered my answer for a moment, the delay more a result of the delicious sensations she was generating in my sex organs. "I would say we are experimenting with it."

Fiona was silent, waiting for me to explain further, but her fingers continued their massage of my sex.

"You see Liam was my first, other than Steven, since we were married." I gasped quietly as she hit an especially sensitive spot. "Well, my first man, that is," I resumed in a bit of probably unnecessary honesty. "There have been a number of women, some of whom he knows about and others he is unaware of. As I said, Steven and I have decided that we will have an open marriage, but it would probably be fair to say that we are still trying to decide exactly what that means for us. The one thing we agree upon is that we are still very much in love."

"I see," she said. "Well, everyone has to work out the limits of their relationship for themselves. But tell me, why are there some women you haven't told him about?"

"Oh, it was because I promised them I wouldn't tell anyone. For some of the women I have been with, exposure of a lesbian affair would do great damage to their marriage, their business or political position, or some other important aspect of their life. I learned long ago that if you are going to seduce interesting people, discretion is important.

She paused for a minute as she continued to massage my sex. God I was enjoying this. It wasn't at all like fucking Liam in the stairwell. That had been rough and hurried. This was slow, but still just as nasty—letting an attractive, sensual woman masturbate my sex through my garments in a fine restaurant. There was nothing between us and the other diners but the heavy white tablecloth that draped the front of the table.

"So you're bi?" Fiona asked me.

"Yes. I have been for years. Absolutely no preference for men or women. It's sex and that's it for me. Just the way I'm wired. I don't advertise it in my line of work, but I don't repress it either."

"I thought so," she said.

"How?" I asked.

"It was just the way you reacted when I whispered in your ear before we sat down. I could feel your nipples stiffen against my chest. Most women don't have that reaction when you tell them you know they have been fucking your husband."

"Does that happen often?"

"Occasionally. He likes to arrange dinners like this with his conquests. It's one of his little quirks."

"Sounds a bit like a cat bringing a mouse home to show its owner."

Fiona smiled. "I never thought of it that way, but I must say that most of the women he brought home were a good deal more interesting than a dead mouse. He has good taste."

Now it was my turn to laugh. "I guess that wasn't a good analogy."

"I must say you're more interesting than most. I'm still not quite clear on who seduced whom?" She pushed hard on my pussy as she finished, sending a shock through my loins.

"Let's just say it was mutual. It's easier that way."

Bluepen451
Bluepen451
1,398 Followers