A mature couple seduces an innocent coed into a threesome.
*** Note: This story is about an early-30s couple seeking out and having a consensual threesome with a college student they dominate. Enjoy..
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Every so often I’m newly in awe of my girlfriend, Julie. She’s 34, you can tell only from the finest of lines starting to creep from eyes to ears. Not that they are imperfections- on the contrary, they lend an aged mystery to an otherwise almost obscenely nubile figure- 105lbs of perfect with a narrow waist, medium-sized breasts that swell a cup-size monthly and a nonsensically round ass. Her body is pure sex; her visage impossibly complex- it defies all characterization. I’ve been staring at it for years and appreciate it anew each time. It’s my favorite face on Earth.
This particular night, I was admiring her at a bar in Greenwich Village. It was a classic Indian Summer evening, the leaves blazing yellow in sweltering heat and falling already crisped to streets freshly alive with tens of thousands of college students crammed into the various towers NYU had turned into dorms. We love the area- its diversity, vibrancy, the bizarre scenes that eddy around the fountain, there and then gone in the blink of an eye- a 70 year old woman on a skateboard, a shirtless boy of 13 playing Pokemon Go, a beagle chasing a bird, splashing into the water. It also reeked, figuratively, of sex.
Summer should be the sensual apex, by rights, but a fall day was a strong echo and the legions of sweaty co-eds returning in their prime had an amplifying effect. It was our hunting season.
I knew Julie was bisexual before she did, or at least before she admitted it. I saw how she looked at women, the way a disinhibitive of one form or another stoked that interest to lust. I carefully collected anecdotes: crushes, college explorations remembered fondly, little wisps of tension in social settings. As you can imagine, a woman like her attracts sexual interest from most everyone, young and old, man and woman. It was intoxicating sometimes to just be in her presence and experience vicariously the raw power of that attraction, so wanton and indiscriminate. There are plenty of advantages to being a man but the raw experiential power of being a beautiful woman in her prime is something else entirely.
We’d been together for about a year when, in one of those pleasantly disinhibited states, I mentioned the idea of picking up a girl together. At first, she resisted, suspecting it was a declaration of boredom, of some latent desire of mine to explore outside the relationship. She took it more seriously than I and I respected that tendency of hers, as someone who sometimes follows impulses to destructive ends. After some weeks, long conversations and my most strident assurances, the wriggling part of her that had always wanted to came alive and we put our plan into action. It took two months to meet Catherine, a story I’ll save for another time.
This particular night, we set out for a bar known for being lax on identification and long on women in the early throes of their 20s. It was dark, pulsing, with that New York summer smell, busy but not overwhelmed on a Wednesday night. Per normal, I made a point to make a long visit to the bathroom- Julie, ever leonine, hunts alone.
When I emerged she was deep in conversation with someone who looked a little too fresh-eyed for our purposes. She was white and pale with brown hair so curly it extended almost comically in both directions from her ears. I’ve yet to mention my own unremarkable appearance but I share her complexion, along with just-above-averageTM height, deepset eyes and a body lean and muscular but genetically antiadonic. The girl was laughing at a joke of Julie’s, looking up at her the way women sometimes do at someone they feel surpasses them. Julie already had a hand perched delicately on her slender shoulder. As I neared I got a better look at her face which was gorgeous in a sort of rounded, cherubic way. She was dewy, brimming with youth. There was no sadness in that face, no shame, no weakness. This woman was from money.
I approached with an almost practiced air of confidence and swept my arm around Julie possessively. You could tell from the little surprised look on the girl’s face that I hadn’t come up in conversation yet. “Hi there, I’m James. I see you’ve met my paramour, Julie.”
I’ve found that college students don’t know what to do with the word paramour- it’s simultaneously undescriptive and evocative.
“Oh… yes… hi- I’m Marie. Nice to meet you.”
“Same. Sorry to interrupt you two, I’ll just grab a seat over here.”
With that, I placed myself on the other side of Marie at the bar, sandwiching her and listened intently as Julie spoke about her work investing in clean energy. Marie paid me little mind until she mentioned idly that she was studying computer science and my own background investing in software companies became relevant. Julie and I tire easily of worktalk, so with the requisite signaling aside we bore into Marie. She was, indeed, from money, though not as much as I had presupposed- her parents were doctors in Connecticut, she was a Junior at the college studying computational biology, she was sipping a gin and tonic. A superpower of Julie’s is that questions that would seem invasive and leading from me seem almost motherly coming from her: in half an hour we had learned that Marie had lost her virginity just a few months ago, that it had been a classically uninspiring college experience, that, yes, she had some curiosities about women, her preferred vibrator (a magic bullet) and that she sometimes watched porn featuring hung black men but still felt a sort of innocent guilt about that. As the moments wore on and the locus of the conversation lingered on sex, I could feel Marie start to squirm, not uncomfortably, in her seat. She wasn’t drunk- we hadn’t so much as ordered another round, but her legs had spread subtly on her stool such that one was touching each of us. Julie knew it was time to go in for the kill.
“Say, Marie, it’s a little loud in here. What do you say we go back to our place? It’s just a block away and we have a rare Gin I think you’ll love. James makes the best gin and tonics.”
She hesitated, just a smidge, because of me and the open-endedness of it all.
“Oh, and we have a hot tub.”
Sold.
Our place is, if I can be immodest, stunning. It’s set on the highest floors of a twelve-story tower and comprises three levels- bedrooms on the bottom floor, a huge entertaining area / kitchen on the second and then a marble floating staircase up to our rooftop with downtown views, seating for 20 and a cabana area with an oversized hot tub. It isn’t necessarily ostentatious, certain not gold plated or Trumpian, but it certainly leaves little about our lifestyles to the imagination. Julie showed Marie up while I made drinks. I arrived with three gin ‘n tonics on a copper platter and set them down.
“What do you think, Marie, up for a dip?”
Julie had shrugged off her top and was already down to her bra.
“Umm, I don’t have a swimsuit with me.”
Julie’s bra dropped to the floor.
“It’s okay sweetie, it’s private up here and this is New York after all.”
Marie and I collectively lost focus on her words. Julie’s breasts are a sight to behold. So perky they seem the be pointed skyward in defiance of gravity, with an apple-ish shape and nipples that protruded a full centimeter and a half from narrow, slightly puffy areolae. Marie, who had no doubt imagined what they might look like more than a few times already that evening, was entranced. She glanced over to me, then back at Julie who was shimmying out of her pants as if it were the most normal thing in world (it was, of course, for us), then back to me.
Sometimes people need permission, even from a biased source. I nodded to her and said “Go ahead” firmly. It was adorable how she shyly unbuttoned her top, then started to fumble with the rest.
I made my way over to her in three short paces. “Here, let me help” and with one deft wave of my hand her bra joined Julie’s on the floor. Her breasts were stunning; I couldn’t help but gawk a little- huge for her frame, round, almost globular, with pink areolae the size of an English muffin taking up almost half of the visible area. You could almost miss her nipples- small little buttons the size of a penny that raised just barely from the plains around them. The three of us lounged mostly naked in the hot tub, sipping drinks for another tension-laden 20 minutes. Marie had adorably opted to keep her panties on, perhaps unaware that they would almost necessarily have to come off after being so drenched. For awhile, the conversation lingered on breasts- their differences, sensitivities, textures. Marie’s eyes were fixed on Julie’s while, in a drink-grabbing reshuffle she ended up with her legs drawn over my lap and my hand on her stomach. We all knew the destination, it was just a matter of time.