2,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Olympia Press
- Kategorie: Erotik
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
Documentary account of wife-swapping, with notes taken down by the impoverished "Marcus." Has its moments.
Das E-Book wird angeboten von und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
Some Have Too Much
Marcus Van Heller
This page copyright © 2007 Olympia Press.
INTRODUCTION
“When the time came, he took me to his bedroom, lowered his trousers and gave me the surprise of my life. What a root! Why, the damn thing must have been nine inches long and as big around as my wrist! It stood out from his crotch, stiff and quivering and already dripping. Who the hell cared that he was fat and sloppy otherwise. I'd taken some fairly big ones but we still had a heck of a time getting that ponderous pecker into me. When it was snugly bedded in my body, I demonstrated the trick I had learned from Lani. To my amazement, he came like a fire hose. Since that night with Doc, I've never turned down a man just because of his age. In fact, come to think about it, I've never turned down another man anyway.”
The above is quoted from one of the letters appearing in this volume. It is presented as fair warning to the prudish, the squeamish and those of delicate tastes. As will be readily appreciated from a glance at the above excerpt, the people who wrote the letters of which this book is composed are not particularly delicate people and are rather more concerned with telling it as it is than with sparing your sensibilities or mine.
It all began while I was having lunch with my literary agent.
“Doug,” he said, tidily wiping a bit of steak sauce from the corner of his mouth and fixing me with a sad but accusing eye, “your last novel, the one about the exciting events that took place in Aunt Martha's Antique Shoppe when the genuine Hepplewhite disappeared, has now been in the book stores for six months. It's still there. All the copies.”
“I guess it's a slow starter,” I offered hopefully.
My literary agent snorted. “Let's face it, Doug, fiction is a dead duck, unless you can come up with another James Bond and, to me, you just ain't the type. Nope, this is the day of the documentary. Now I got a hot lead on a bunch of people in California...”
“You mean that... er... sex sort of thing?” I asked, shuddering.
“What's wrong with sex?” he demanded indignantly. “Whadaya think sells toothpaste, cars, vitamin pills and Pepsi Cola? Sex. Right? Now about this bunch of kooks in California... I got a letter from a guy named Arnold Fentis who belongs to a wife-swapping club. It seems that he and his group want to be interviewed. They want to tell all and have it published. Don't ask me why. You should go see for yourself. We've had documentaries on all kinds of nuts... homos, nymphos, Lesbians and even one on the kind of creep that gets his jollies by diddling dead women but we never had one yet on wife-swappers. This could be a real break. I already got your ticket for you on the Sunset.”
Like a salmon on a hook, I gave a last, desperate wiggle. “I was thinking about doing a nice juvenile,” I started to say and then my literary agent's sad, accusing look turned grim and piercing and I suddenly remembered the overdue payment on my Expando trailer. Meekly I held out my hand for the ticket.
Three thousand miles later, Arnold Fentis and I were sitting in my hotel room in Los Angeles. Arnold is a man in his early thirties. He is an aeronautical engineer, good-looking in a rugged way, well-dressed, well-educated and even a bit polished. My first question was the one that had been bothering me all the way from New York.
“Would you mind telling me why you people suddenly want publicity, Mr. Fentis?”
He grinned wryly. “Not publicity as such. Our real names and even our actual places of employment must be kept out of this. We do have an axe to grind, however, Mate-swapping is more than an amusement with us, Mr. Macauely; it's a way of life. We're not out to convert the world but we would like to let people know that we're neither monsters nor criminals. As you may be aware, the law, spurred on by religious fanatics and busybodies, sees fit not to respect our right to privacy. We would like to see that changed. Perhaps through education the public can come to accept us for what we are... ordinary, hard-working Joes and Janes with jobs, families, homes and cars that aren't paid for, who have found a more meaningful and more interesting way of life. We think a book on the subject would help.”
We then discussed the mechanics of the thing and I perceived that my original idea of holding tape-recorded interviews with each of the twelve people involved would prove impractical. These were busy people. Some of the wives worked and all engaged in the usual club and church activities, as well as belonging to various civic groups.
I decided that the easiest and quickest way to do it was to have each of them write a letter, giving a brief outline of their background, telling how they happened to become introduced to wife-swapping and how they now felt about membership in the group.
Fentis agreed to this procedure but made the suggestion that each person be required to read his or her letter to the group before submitting it to me for editing. He thought this would act as a restraining influence on any tendency to overdramatize or exaggerate. All of them being thoroughly familiar with the true circumstances of each other's lives, this seemed reasonable to me. As might well be imagined, there could be no secrets in so intimate a congregation.
In the course of our conversation, I elicited the general information that the group had been in existence for over four years. All of the husbands happened to be employed at a large space agency installation near Los Angeles. All were in the ten-thousand-a-year bracket or better. Most of the men were in the thirty to thirty-five age group, the women averaging somewhat younger.
“May I ask what form your... a... er... group activities take?” I asked a bit diffidently. “Are they what are known as... well as orgies?”
Fentis laughed. “Never. We meet once a week, pair off and return to our own homes... only not with our own wives.”
“Doesn't this involve a lot of driving around? Los Angeles is a big place.”
“No. We all live within a block or two of each other. We have all found homes to buy or rent in the same subdivision. We like being close together.”
“So I gathered,” I said drily, and Fentis chuckled.
Getting the letters, editing them and then calling on the few from whom I needed further information, took several weeks. But the letters were better than I had expected. They were invariably literate, for most of them were people who had enjoyed the advantages of higher education.
I did ask the group, through Fentis, to make no particular attempt to be literary but to concentrate their efforts on giving me the full and true flavor of their lives. They took me quite at my word. I doubt if a less inhibited coterie might be found anywhere. For people of their stations in life, they did surprise me by their marked preference for vulgarities and obscenities in describing the very graphic details of their sexual experiences. I realize, of course, that even “nice” people do talk that way in their bedrooms but I sometimes suspect the group of laying it on a bit thick and of having taken an impish delight in trying to shock me. They succeeded.
I did less editing than I had anticipated. After something of an inner struggle with myself, I decided, in the interest of honest reporting, to delete none of the four-letter words apparently so dear to their hearts and I offer no apology for their inclusion herein. You, as a reader, are entitled to know exactly how these people think and feel and talk, not what I, with my editorial blue pencil poised on high, decide is fitting and proper for you to know.
In working with these people, and in meeting all of them at the nice, sedate, non-orgiastic party they gave for my benefit when the job was done, I came to know them quite well and I found them a delightful bunch, bright, fun-loving and witty... even though I'm sure they regarded me as a hopelessly square, old fuddy-duddy. Did I enjoy interviewing such beautiful and charming women as Paula Fentis, Susan Martin and Honey Van Haagen? You bet I did. I'm not that square.
Knowing them, I find the name “mate-swappers” totally inadequate to describe them. I think of them as modern-day disciples of Pan, the Arcadian god who has, down through the ages, symbolized man's merry and often ribald pursuit of the sensual pleasures.
They might better be termed cultists and sex worshippers.
D.M.
One. THE ARNOLD FENTIS STORY
I am that California rarity, a Native Son. I was born and raised in the Bay Area at Berkeley, where my father had a small grocery store. I was an only child but I don't feel that I was either over-protected or spoiled. My parents, happily, were inclined neither toward indulgent permissiveness nor tyranny. It would be difficult to imagine a situation in which a youngster would be more likely to have a healthy, happy boyhood in a sane, well-adjusted home. So, if after reading this, the tribal witch doctors decide to classify me as a filbert or an almond, they at least can't blame the parental tree that bore me.
I liked school and my teachers liked me, although my grades were only average. I loved sports, possibly because I was good at them.
I was about thirteen when I first became aware that girls looked, smelled and felt much nicer than boys. It was a monumental discovery. I went after them with an enthusiasm that was tempered only by the sudden awkwardness and shyness I felt in their presence. But the first one I succeeded in cornering presented me with a terrific problem when I realized that neither of us had more than the vaguest notion of what we were supposed to do with each other.
Margie was twelve and cute as a baby chick. I lured her into the garage at the back of our lot one evening after school. We did some self-conscious kissing and hugging and, after much argument, she finally allowed me to lift her dress and pull her panties down for a quick peek at her sweet, little pussy, still nearly hairless. In turn, I half-masted my trousers and gave her her first close-up of the male penis, if my stiffly throbbing but insignificant boy's pecker could be dignified by that name.
That was all we did and both of us were so frightened by our own daring that we couldn't get away from each other fast enough. That night in my room, however, I thought about her slender, lovely thighs and visualized her delicately shaped vagina, with its temptingly fashioned vulva, and I jacked-off frantically.
I was fifteen before I got that close to another of the bewitching creatures. Her name was Cherry... a misnomer. Cherry was a year younger than I but older, much older.
There was a tree house in my backyard, one I had built when I was twelve. Cherry expressed a desire to see what it was like inside, so we climbed up and crawled in through the small door. It was musty smelling in there and very cramped, so cramped that she had to sit with her knees under her chin, revealing the undersides of her thighs. Also revealed was the tremendously exciting fact that she was without underwear! She saw where my attention was centered and, with a knowing smile, took my hand and placed it firmly on her warm, moist crotch. She kissed me and her kisses were not at all like the artless ones I had exchanged with Margie. I was shaking like a fox terrier in a blizzard when she unzipped my trousers and took my cock out, fondling and stroking it expertly.
It was impossible to do anything in such close quarters, so we climbed down and went to the garage. One end of it had been partitioned to form a storeroom and, among the junk collected there, was an old mattress. We spread it on the dirt floor, removed our clothing and lay down.
“Kiss my titties,” she instructed me.
They were small, beautiful globes of firm, silky flesh with nipples like tiny, pink penises. I kissed them ardently as she stroked my cock.
She taught me how to finger her clitoris. We continued to kiss and to engage in mutual masturbation until our love play had brought us both to the boiling point of excitement. When she urged me to mount her, I scrambled eagerly but awkwardly to a position between her legs and started hunching her like a jack-rabbit. She finally got me calmed down enough to take better aim and actually get it inside her. Of course, I did it much too hard and fast and came long before she was ready but she was very understanding and patient with me. While we were getting ready for a second go at it, she tried to give me a quick cram course in the fine art of fornication and I think I did a much better job that time, although I still came ahead of her. She didn't seem to mind and showed me how to bring her to an orgasm with my fingers.
We were resting, just lying there naked and idly toying with each other. In the thin shafts of sunlight that came through the cracks in the wall to stripe her body with golden bars, I thought she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
When the door for the garage burst suddenly open, I damn near died of fright. I was sure it was my father, home early from the store. It wasn't. It was Ed Stone.
I didn't like Ed Stone. He was my age but bigger than I and rougher and meaner.
“Uhuh!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “Caughtcha at it! How come you give Arny some and you wouldn't give me none?” he demanded of Cherry.
She shrugged her shoulders. She had neither moved nor made any attempt to cover her nudity. “I do it with guys I want to do it with,” she told him calmly.
He leered at her. “Well, you better start wantin' to do it with me, Baby. If you don't, I'm gonna tell. Amy's mom is standin' right at the kitchen window. All I gotta do is holler.”
Here, I thought with wildly beating heart, was my chance to make like a TV hero. I would spring to my feet and knock Ed cold with one mighty blow to his ugly face. My second thought on the subject was more realistic. Ed was bigger and stronger than I. I decided to stay safely on the mattress and try to either talk him or bluff him out of screwing my girl.
“You don't have to do anything with him,” I assured Cherry. “He's just trying to scare us.” I glared at Ed in what I hoped he would consider a terrifying manner.
He ignored me. He was unzipping his pants and taking his cock out, grinning at Cherry. With a pang of jealousy, I saw that his erection was nearly twice the size of mine. I looked at Cherry and saw that her eyes were gleaming more with interest than with fear.
“Oh, I suppose I might as well,” she said casually. “Come on, Ed. Let's get it over with.”
I spluttered and protested but, by then, they were both ignoring me, so there was nothing for me to do but go sit disconsolately on an empty nail keg and watch Ed take my place on the mattress. By the time he had finished playing around with her, and had mounted her, it occurred to me that this was my chance to pick up something heavy and brain the bastard. But I didn't. I kept putting it off because I had discovered that watching the two of them was nearly as fascinating as doing it myself. As I studied the rotary movement of Ed's fanny, and how Cherry's hips matched it with a like gyration, I realized what a fumbly, dumb kid I was and I was ashamed of the inept display I'd made of myself earlier.
Something else was happening too. I became acutely aware of the terrific excitement generated by mere observation of the sex act and my cock was so hard it made my nuts ache.
Like a spectator who watches a runner from his home team come sliding safely in over the plate, I felt like cheering as Cherry achieved a wild, moaning, groaning orgasm and Ed came right behind her. Panting, he collapsed on her for a minute and then rolled off, his cock still erect and glistening wetly.
He grinned at me and it was a friendly grin. “Go on, Kid,” he offered indulgently, “you pop her again too while she's still warm.”
I lost no time in complying. As my cock slid easily into her cunt, all slippery from Ed's semen, Cherry smiled up at me, her eyes sleepy and contented, like the eyes of a well-fed cat. I tried to remember all she had told me, and what I had learned from watching Ed, and I think I turned in a rather creditable performance that time. I was immensely proud of myself when I caused her to have a violent orgasm.
After I had dismounted, the three of us lay on the mattress with Cherry in the middle. Ed had cigarettes. He offered me one and he and I smoked while she played with our cocks.
Well, Ed turned out to be my best friend and, for a long time, we continued to share Cherry's favors. As we grew older, we shared other things too, like booze, an old car we bought together and all the girls we could get.
When, by reason of my R.O.T.C. training, I obtained a reserve commission in the army, Ed enlisted. We were in the same outfit in Korea. We nearly shared death there but that was one experience Ed had to face alone. I cried like a baby and, when they sent me to Japan on leave, I got drunk and tore up a whorehouse out of sheer frustration.
I was twenty-three when I came home with my wounds, a dose of the clap and the resolution to obtain an engineering degree.
There were girls in college and I never missed a chance to lay one of them. I was happily discovering that each was a little prettier and a little sexier than the one before her. It seemed to me that, pussy being so much better than anything else in life, it was a damned shame a man had to waste so much of his time studying or working for a living.
I was twenty-eight and working at Lockheed as a junior engineer when I met Paula. She was a clerk in the Personnel Office. She was two years older than I, had been married and widowed. I didn't give a damn about any of that. The first day when I stood at the counter with my application for employment in my hand, and watched her trim legs twinkle across the office to a filing cabinet, I fell madly in love with her. When she smiled at me, I came apart so completely I could hardly remember how to spell my name. She had blue eyes, brown hair, big tits and the tiniest waist I'd ever seen. I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world and, after eight years of marriage, I still think so.
She wasn't easy. It took me two months to get a date with her and another two weeks to get her into my bed. She was heaven! I thought I knew all about sex. Hell! I was still just a stupid kid sitting on a nail keg watching Ed screw my girl. Paula taught me that my tongue and lips were good for something other than nibbling on her beautiful boobies. She also taught me that a woman's body has more than one orifice and that each is its own little gateway to paradise.
I sometimes wondered if she didn't regret teaching me to go down on her. When we were first married, I hardly had my head out from between her legs long enough for her to go to the bathroom.
It didn't take me long to realize that slipping a ring on Paula's finger hadn't necessarily eliminated all of the competition. Men stared at her wherever she went, whistled if they thought they could get away with it and, at cocktail parties, there was always some wolf trying to proposition her or even ease her into the nearest bedroom.
The hell of it was that I couldn't tell from her apparent reaction to these advances how she actually felt about being the center of male attraction. She certainly didn't act like she was insulted. She'd just laugh, but it was the sort of noncommittal laugh that could have meant almost anything. In my own mind, I was positive that she loved me yet, at the same time, I had the sneaking suspicion that she really enjoyed being admired and made-over by the other guys too. I wanted to know I could trust her but didn't dare probe too deeply, afraid I might find out I couldn't.
We'd been watching the late, late show on TV, one of those, sticky, triangle things, and I'd had a hard time keeping awake through it.
“Arny,” Paula said as I flipped the switch that turned the set off, “what would you do if that happened to us... if I screwed some other man?”
“Hell, I don't know,” I replied, yawning. “Why? You planning to step out on me?”
“I've considered it.”
“What?” I was no longer sleepy.
“Didn't it ever occur to you,” she asked me, “that a woman doesn't stop being a woman when she gets married? You had a lot of variety in your sex life before you met me. Don't you ever have the teensiest, weensiest little yen to get yourself laid by someone new and different?”
“Christ no! You're talking nonsense. I love you.”
“I love you too but don't fib to mama. I saw the way you were eyeing that chick in the blue dress at the Meadow's cocktail party.”
“Aw, that's different.”
“Is it? I was alone for awhile in the kitchen with Tom Meadows. He kissed me and I let him feel me up. I wanted him, Arny. That doesn't mean I don't love you, or that I'd leave you for him, even if he wasn't already married. Don't tell me you wouldn't have kissed that doll in the blue dress if you'd had the same chance I had with Tom.”
We fought about it half the night. We spent the other half making madly passionate love, so it was a good thing the next day was Saturday and I didn't have to go to work. I sulked around the house, drinking a lot and feeling miserable but there was a funny, strange, little something nagging at the back of my mind. I couldn't identify it and it wouldn't go away but, whatever it was, it was keeping me in a constant state of sexual excitement.
Paula finally took me by the hand and led me to the bedroom. “Come on,” she said as she began stripping, “and show mama you still love her.”
I did. I fucked her so long and so hard that I exhausted her and then I got down between her legs and sucked her until she'd had so many orgasms she was as limp as a wet noodle.
She lay there, her eyes sleepy and a little smile on her face. The afternoon sun slanted through the Venetian blinds to cast golden bars across her body. It was like watching a movie I'd seen years earlier. I was back in the storage room of our garage with a girl named Cherry. My buddy, Ed, was lying on the other side of her, smoking a cigarette. And, suddenly, I knew what the thing was that had been bothering me all day. I'd been subconsciously visualizing Paula being made love to by Tom Meadows and it had been turning me on like crazy.
Crazy is right, I thought. Christ! I didn't want her to be touched by any other man! Or did I? I thought of Tom kissing her and putting his hands under her skirt to feel her wet, gasping pussy and thrusting a finger into it while she clung to him, rubbing her breasts on his chest and sucking his tongue. I thought of what he had already done with her, and of all the things there remained for him to do, and a wave of affection for him swept over me. After all the screwing we'd just done, I again had a hell of a hard-on.
“You still want Tom Meadows to lay you?” I asked her. I was hearing my own voice say those words. It sounded hoarse and far away and I didn't believe it.
“Yes, but only if you'll say it's okay. I could never do anything behind your back, Darling.”
“All right,” I said, wondering if that was really me saying that.
She drew my head down and kissed me, her eyes shining, then she turned on the bed and took my cock in her mouth, sucking gently while she massaged it with her tongue and her fingers softly stroked my bag, delicately toying with my balls. When I came, it was a slow explosion that disintegrated me, blowing me apart and then letting the pieces flow together and run into her mouth in soul-shaking jets. I watched her throat move as she swallowed repeatedly.
Nothing more was said about Tom until the following morning and I was in an agony of suspense, afraid she'd changed her mind and wasn't going to go through with it, but I was afraid to bring it up. She got on the phone and stayed there for an hour but that wasn't unusual. Like most women, she loved that damned phone.
I was opening a beer in the kitchen when she came in, an impish look on her face that told me she'd been up to something. “You better shave and change your clothes,” she told me. “You're going to have company.”
“Company? Me? Who?”
“Remember the cutie in the blue dress? She happens to be Tom Meadows' wife's sister. He's bringing her over here. She'll spend the day with you while Tom and I go to a motel down the coast. Tom could have brought either his wife or his sister-in-law for you but I picked the one you said you liked. You're not going to chicken-out on me now, are you, Honey?”
I shook my head. I was relieved to know that she and Tom were going to make love but this talk about his wife and his sister-in-law was a little too fast for me. She had to spell it out. I'd heard of wife swappers, of course, but they weren't real. They weren't people you knew. They were shadow figures in magazine stories and newspaper articles. When I finally got the picture, I wanted to know how Paula managed to be so much more hip than I concerning what went on among our friends. But she had to get dressed, and put her face on too, so she didn't have time to tell me.
The next thing I knew, she was speeding off in Tom's green convertible and I was standing in the living room looking at Jill Bexel. She was something to look at. She was tiny and blonde and not over twenty-one. She was wearing an aqua-colored sheath, low cut enough for her tits to bulge out over the edge of the material.
“Is that all you're going to do, just stare at me?” she asked with a teasing smile that curled her red lips and made her greenish eyes dance.
“No,” I said, “that's not all I'm going to do.” I took her in my arms and, when I felt her soft, firm, girl's body pressed against mine, the smell of her perfume and the taste of her lips excitingly different than Paula's I knew that Paula had been right. Being married didn't turn off either your body or your mind. The thrill of someone new was just as real as it had ever been. When I kissed Jill, I had a sudden vision of Paula's lips hungrily seeking Tom's and my cock leaped to attention, prodding Jill in the belly.
She put her hand on it and squeezed me through the cloth of my trousers. “I'm so glad you like me,” she murmured.
I offered her a drink. When she sat on the couch, she crossed her legs so that the hem of her dress rode high above her knees. I gulped at the sight of the expanse of smooth, lightly tanned flesh.
Jill smiled. “I love knowing I'm turning a man on,” she said, “and I can see you practically panting. I wonder how much of it's me and how much is thinking about your wife and Tom. Don't worry. Your prick will be just as hard no matter what the cause. Paula says you're new at this. It's always this way. The biggest part of the thrill is in thinking about what your better half is doing. It's a thrill that never wears out or gets stale.”
“Where's your husband?” I asked her.
“He has a colored girl who lives on Central Avenue. Right at this moment, I expect he's got his tongue as deep as it'll go in her cunt.”
“Do you do it with colored guys?”
“Whenever I get the chance. They're fabulous. You ever have a black girl?”
“Not since college. She was great but her parents found out she was dating a white guy and raised hell with her. You can't blame them. We don't bring them anything but trouble.”
She had finished her drink. I reached behind her and pulled down the zipper of her dress. I also unsnapped her brassiere. Her breasts tumbled free, available to my lips. I put a hand under her skirt, slid it up the length of her velvety legs and began to pull her panties off.
“Shouldn't we go in the bedroom?”
“Later.”
I had her undressed. Her body was beautiful and there was something about it that made me think she might have been even less than twenty-one. She was golden brown from the sun except for the dazzling white of her loins and breasts. I dropped to my knees in front of her, spreading her legs. I began kissing the perfumed skin of those gorgeous thighs, hard, sucking kisses that would leave little bruises. She was so damned delicious I coul [...]
