The Other Side of Pleasure

Time seemed to stand still on the crisp, sunlit ridge. The air was quiet. Hardly a wind stirred the surface of the deep powder which had built up during the blizzards of the last two days. The Bernese Alps roamed away from me in all directions. Looking down the slope, I was able to see into the valley which housed the little town of Chateau d'Oex, but everything was made minuscule by the distance. I believed I did see the small, narrow gauge train as it wound its way slowly up the valley toward Gstaad and the other little villages-Schroenrid, Saanen, Saanenmoser. Gstaad was no little village, of course. Rumor had it that the Shah and the Empress of Iran were in residence there now. The Burtons were just getting together, or just getting divorced, or something-anyway, they also were reputed to be in their chalet. The stargazers consequently had gone up the line, which was all right with me, for it left the slopes nearly empty on this exquisite Saturday afternoon. The snow was very good. I had not before had the pleasure of skiing on open snowfields-the eastern United States is too low in elevation for there to be any true snowfields, with the exception perhaps of Tuckerman's-and I was awed by the prospect of the four-thousand foot drop before me. Endless virgin snow spread around me. I could ski anywhere. There were miles I could ski before I reached the forests four thousand feet below, where I would have to take one of the cleared trails.

I was sitting just then on a great, wide veranda, or deck, which was attached to the lodge at the top of the tram run from the valley. Two trams had arrived with their cargoes of eager skiers while I sat and nursed an icy bottle of Feldschlossen. The skiers, for the most part, disdained sitting around on such a lovely morning, and they immediately donned their skis and went schussing down through the powder. A minority, however, wandered over to the lodge, stacked their skis, and settled down on the deck for some beer or wine, some of the hot sausages and sauerkraut the kitchen dished out so generously, or just for a moment's quiet conviviality before the run. Most of them seemed accustomed to such impressive surroundings as they found up here, and they were more intent upon each other or their food than they were on the scenery. There were the tourists, of course, with their cameras, but in the main this was a local crowd, international perhaps, but local in the sense that they an knew one another and had been skiing around here for years.

It occurred to me that there probably are these communities of people an over the world who more or less do the same thing day after day and who make up a group with its own ethos. I feel that this is the case with the financial community in Boston, for example. It is a very small world. Everyone in the eastern banking set knows everyone else. Rumor and gossip are rife. The in-talk is endless and, I suppose, mysterious to an outsider. And, though it was in a more glamorous setting, this skiing group was the same. I imagined them as birds, flying from spot to spot, flocking together for their high, bantering conversations, following the sun and the snow, their eyes full of air, their faces brown.

They would have, perhaps, the same moments of ennui as any sedate banker. They would wonder where this was all leading them. They would feel anger at a trap of money, and snow, and unyielding talk about the technological developments of the latest boot and binding. Perhaps they would envision life as a lawyer, an accountant. Perhaps they would wish they were living what middle-class America, at any rate, likes to think of as a "normal" life. A house in the suburbs, two point three children, one point eight cars, seventeen thousand dollars per year. Perhaps ...

But why should they envy what I have, I wondered. What is the attraction of my job, my apartment, my debts, my small pleasures? Unless they are fulfilling to myself, or unless their maintenance truly gives the gift of life to someone I love, what is their use? Here was Marianne-well, somewhere on this mountain was Marianne-and she was willing to look to me for her happiness in the next many years. She didn't have any particular desires in terms of what we did to make a living. Anything was all right with her. Well, we could live on my savings for a while, eight months, a year, a year and a half, and then we'd have to make some more money somehow. But the main question-on can always make money-the main question is, what group do we want to belong to? Do we really want the sort of life offered by the bank and the accounting department? Do we want the life offered by European prep schools? Do we want the snowbird life? "Sail around the world," she had said. Yes, that would be a great thing to do. There's probably a community of people who do that as well, who meet now and then in some harbor, meet again on the other side of the world in another harbor three years later ...

If we could get a boat ...

But it was all too farfetched. We had to get her out of this school somehow first, take away the Meyer woman's hold over her. I thought again about the plan, and there didn't seem to be any way that it really could work. The whole thing was too flimsy. All we were trying to do was to out-blackmail Agnes Meyer. Marianne ought to be taking care of that right now, with a little help from Mallory. We had worked the whole thing out last night, the night after the great orgy. We three had sat around the fire after making even more love, and Mallory had been taken completely into our confidence. She was eager to help, and we discovered in her an unexpected subtlety as a conspirator.

After two and a half days of living in Marianne's room and pissing into a beer bottle so that she could sneak it out to flush it away, I was greatly relieved to climb from the window and disappear into last night. The inn where I had left my things was also relieved. They were beginning to think that I had died, and they were about to call in the police when I showed up. The story I told, with enough winking and nudging, convinced them that all was well, and I had the pleasure of changing into new clothes after bathing.

And now, here I was, atop the mountain, supplied with rented skis and boots, free to run down whenever I wanted to and to take another few runs before night fell. There was some possibility that Marianne might meet me on the slopes, but we had left it that I would see her if I saw her. We had no idea how long the blackmailing of The Meyer would take. I sipped at my beer, feeling the wonderful taste all through me. Switzerland was a revel of the senses. Marianne, Mallory, the mountains, the high air, the beer, the food. I could hardly imagine a more perfect spot.

I finished the bottle and determined to ski.

On this first run, I followed somewhat in the tracks of other skiers before me. We were all heading for a certain gap in the forest below, a gap nestled between the slopes of two slight rises on either side. But my tracks took me wide of the usual lane, and I felt light as I slid down. My skis hissed. The snow was perfect. I sat back and took a slope steeper than I should have dared. I skied faster than I knew how, and the snow flew around me. I felt it beating against me as high as my chest, pouring sometimes over my shoulders as I dropped into hollows, and I sped along. For a while, I was alone on the slope. Then there were others by me, and then I was alone again. We wove beautiful, dancing patterns down and down, the line of trees growing darker and more imposing as it rushed up to meet us. I took a line to the right, skimmed along the edge of a steeper drop, circled down into it once at the other edge. The sun was hypnotic as it splashed on my poles, the tips of my skis, the cloud of fine powder around me. My legs were trembling as I reached the top of the last long fall down into the woods, so I swung myself to a halt, panting, happy, my mind flung out along the slope behind, brilliant in the day.

And then the next slope, faster and faster, curving down in a long sweep to the hole in the trees. And then I was in the forest, too fast, too narrow. I shed speed as quickly as I could, edging this way and that, plunging over the more packed snow, weaving in and out of moguls like a ship in a rough sea. Finally I got my speed under control. The trail widened again and then narrowed. It crossed the fall line to the right and then back again to the left. For a time it leveled out until it was barely a slope, and I was able to make more long, sweeping turns. I stopped there to rest again, and a party of brightly dressed women went by whooping and laughing. One of them took a spill, but she was up in a moment, skating and poling after her friends, her sweater white with snow. At a more leisurely pace, I followed them. The trail then dipped for its last two-mile fall down into the bottom of the valley, and here was the steepest and the hardest skiing of the run. I found myself on the very edge of my ability, holding a line between too fast and too slow. I leaned forward, attacking the mountain, and I was almost delirious with pleasure at the way my knees, my ankles, my thighs took the challenge and carried the speed all the way down the last pitch and out again into the snowy, crowded base area. I came to a showery halt, skiing negligently backward for a few feet, and then stood, my face flushed, my heart beating, my body totally alive with the speed and the drop. Again, I heard my soul crying, do it again! So I did.

In all, I took seven runs during the day, three on that same trail, and then three more on other trails, and the final one again on my familiar terrain. Prudently, I stopped when I was getting really tired. The sun was dipping behind the clouds which had gathered above the rim of the Alps, and the long day was over. Tired skiers shouldered their skis and began wandering back down the road toward the village, a drink, and their suppers. I turned in my equipment, made a bit of conversation with the pretty girl who received it, and stood around for a while as the late skiers came down the final long schuss. It was exciting to watch them dropping down; they looked like toys as they tipped over the final edge, but then they got bigger and bigger, and finally they were right beside you, blowing, laughing, knocking the snow off their legs with their poles.

As we had arranged, Marianne met me on the road to the chateau and told me what had happened. All was well, she thought. She was not certain, of course, whether the plot had worked completely, but the first stages had gone off without a hitch, and she was pretty confident of the outcome. She told me that the girls were all supposed to attend a meeting that evening at seven-thirty, so that would be a good time for me to arrive. The chances were that she would be able to sneak me up to her room without anyone seeing and without my having to resort to climbing the wall.

I went back to the inn, had a shower and a bite to eat, packed my kit, stowed it with the concierge, paid the bill and left. It was just after seven-thirty when I arrived at the school. Sure enough, the girls were all sequestered downstairs in an auditorium, listening to a reading of medieval poetry, and Marianne was free to guide me up to the third floor unobserved. I took this opportunity to see the inside of the chateau. The appointments of the place were sumptuous. Nowhere was there the linoleum, the hospital green paint, the remodeling in the name of efficiency which characterize so many schools in the States. I saw busts of composers and artists, real paintings, heavy furniture made of wood instead of plastic and steel, carpets of an oriental design. The floors were highly polished, the tapestries were well preserved, and the chandeliers glowed with a soft light. In an, the place was startling in its beauty. There was the hushed atmosphere of solid money behind it. The girls, I began to think, must all be the most polished and tasteful of little princesses. They would be ripe for The Meyer's sort of conversion, realizing as they did that they were the very cream of the posh. I was not altogether attracted by a crowd of such kids. I had been reasonably well-off all my life, but a certain amount of worldly scuffling was still required, and I had always felt that it was probably a good thing. Too much ease is almost as much of a burden as too little.

We arrived in Marianne's room to find the fire cheerfully alight, and the room lit by candles in sconces. She had prepared an attractive and stimulating setting for what we hoped might occur later on, and I saw that everything was in order. She had to return to the auditorium, but she saw me settled with a glass of beer first.

As I sat there, I began to have some misgivings about what we were about to do. I was only taking Marianne's word for the fact that she was being, to all intents and purposes, blackmailed. Which is not to infer that I failed to trust her. I did trust her. It was just that we were preparing to break her contract to the school, and to my orderly mind such conduct was not undertaken lightly. Perhaps it would be better to finish out the last four months of school. She could always find a reason to leave in the summer. Then we could be together. This was untidy, and I didn't like the feeling of it. Oh, I understood the desperation that she felt. I remembered the story of Claudette. I recalled the tension over The Meyer felt by those two lesbians I had watched from the balcony. I still boiled under the collar a little at the way that I had myself been treated by the woman. But still, we were attempting to break a contract, an agreement made by my friend in good faith. This did not sit well.

And what did we really know about The Meyer? That she was a martinet we could be sure. But many useful and significant people are. The president of my company was something of one himself, and though people laughed at him for it, we all had to admit that he was as quick as a whip when it came to finance. We knew that The Meyer was a lesbian, and we inferred that she was a militant one. In this day and age, homosexuality is, if anything, chic. All the best people are gay, don't you know? Even the new word, gay, signifies a changed attitude we are supposed to have toward it. Well, my Marianne was not straight, as I had reason to know, and I would, if pressed, have had to own to a few scattered experiences myself along that line when I was in my teens. So then, what was so different about The Meyer? Was it simply the matter of degree? Why would that make so much difference? Her exclusivity as a lesbian ought to trouble us very little. It was, in the end, the cynicism of her campaign with the girls that troubled us. That was her real crime. It was a crime against the questing spirit. She was dedicated to decreasing the girls' capacities rather than increasing them, and this while living in the guise of an increaser, a teacher.

I rested my case. The verdict was clear. She was guilty of a crime against the human spirit, and she deserved the punishment of losing a teacher in the middle of the year. As well as the punishment of being muzzled in the particular way that we had in mind.

But I still felt troubled. No, we were wrong. Two wrongs do not make a right. Marianne had a duty to the girls as well as she did to the school administration, an even greater duty, in fact. It was for them that she was doing this. "The Meyer was simply the agency which paid. We could run out on The Meyer and perhaps carry away only a sense of unhappiness with the lengths to which we had been driven, but with the girls--with the girls we could not; in conscience, trifle.

Thus I sat and mulled as I waited for the program downstairs to end. The entire thing was complicated. Like many decisions in life, there was available less of a clear answer than I might have wished. I finished the beer and hesitated over whether to open another. They tasted very good-cold, from sitting out on the balcony-but I was not certain when Marianne would arrive, and I did not want to be unprepared for any conflict which might arise."

As it happened, I was spared the decision, for the noise in the corridor told me that the poetry reading was over and that the principals of this little drama would be upon me in a moment. Sure enough, the door rattled, opened, and there before me were Marianne, Mallory, and The Meyer. Marianne, of course, looked as splendid as she always did. Mallory was dressed demurely in. the school uniform. The Meyer, now that I was seeing her again after four days of thinking unpleasant things about her, appeared quite handsome, actually, in a well-tailored suit of grey wool, the skirt wide and just below her knees, her blouse pale blue silk. I had to admit that she was a prepossessing woman. There was an air of command about her, a businesslike feeling. Here was someone, you thought, who knew what she wanted, who had figured out how to get what she wanted, and who was in the process, with no nonsense, of doing just that. Humorless perhaps she was, but capable one would always know she was as well.

She didn't see me for a moment-the light was not bright-and she stepped briskly into the room ahead of Marianne, her eyes roving over the furnishings, until she stopped with a slight exclamation at seeing a man seated easily in an armchair before the fire. I was not certain whether she recognized me. Her eyes took in my face for a moment, and then she turned to Marianne with an interrogative lifting of an eyebrow. "Can you explain this?" she asked. Her voice, as I recalled, was cool and devoid of any dramatic inflection.

"I can."

Mallory sidled away from The Meyer and made herself inconspicuous against the far wall.

"Agnes Meyer, I have the honor to present-"

"I have made Mr. Alexander's acquaintance already. What I am interested in knowing is what reason there is for him to be on a floor closed to the public and in the private room of one of my teachers."

"Mr. Alexander is helping me with a certain matter which is of great importance to me."

"And that is?"

"Perhaps we ought to sit down?" Marianne indicated the bed and the third chair, and The Meyer sat somewhat stiffly on the edge of the chair. Marianne moved toward the dresser, on which had been set the wine decanter, and gestured toward it with a smile in her boss's direction.

"I hardly think this is the occasion for celebration."

"I'm sorry. I'll have some myself, if you don't mind."

I could see that Marianne was enjoying this baiting of The Meyer. It was somewhat hard on the woman, but I had to admit that she had some cause to be vindictive.

Marianne poured a glass of wine carefully held it up to the fire as though to check its color sniffed at the bouquet, and took a tiny sip. "We are negotiating from a position of power," she said.

"I don't understand what you mean."

"I am referring to my resignation."

"This is the first I've ever heard of such a thing."

"True. I tender it now, effective immediately."

There was a slight frown creasing The Meyer's perfect forehead now, but her composure was admirable. "Hadn't this better be discussed in private? I hardly think that one of the students and a man are necessary in a private discussion such as this is."

"Mallory and Alex will stay. They are part of my case."

"Case?"

"Case, Ms. Meyer. Both of us understand the strictures you can place upon me-as does everyone in this room-and I require the assistance of both Mallory and Alex in order to avoid the consequences of my actions here."

The Meyer now was silent. Her eyes lingered on me for a longish time, and I wondered whether there wasn't just the smallest hint of personal appraisal there.

"Ms. Meyer, I have evidence of what you were doing this afternoon. Mallory-"

"Is your agent." Here she looked at the girl, who stared back at her equably.

"True."

"And you just want me to know that she will speak out for you if anything should happen."

"Right again."

"I think I understand."

"That's good."

There was a curious, unresolved tension in the room. Marianne's wind had been stolen somewhat by The Meyer's last few comments, and my friend stood awkwardly on one foot, waiting for something to happen.

"I suppose you have thought of your responsibility to the girls," The Meyer asked. She stood and walked over to Mallory, upon whose shoulder she dropped a possessive hand. "Purely from the point of view of a teacher, I mean, leaving all the rest of it aside."

"I have."

"You are happy with yourself in this?"

"Not especially."

"You are liked here by the girls."

"I appreciate your saying so."

"It would be unfortunate to see you leave from their point of view, I mean."

"I understand that."

"Luckily, I have two applications on file for teachers to fill your position, women who can be ready immediately."

"You ease my conscience."

"That is not my purpose. I mean only to show that you are wanted, that you will be missed and that I would prefer to keep you on. I can, it is true, replace you without difficulty to the school but I would rather I didn't have to do so."

During this speech, The Meyer wandered away from Mallory, and she spoke as she made a circuit of the room. Idly, she examined the photographs on the walls. As aimlessly, she picked up and put down a knickknack or two on the dresser. She picked up the decanter, raised a questioning eye at Marianne, received her assent, poured herself a glass, and continued her tour. Presently, she stopped in front of me, examined my slouched form, and said, "A man."

No one made any comment to this.

"Are you the reason behind this?" she asked me.

"Perhaps."

"This is a school, you know. We have a responsibility here."

"I'm sorry."

She turned back to Marianne. "What will you do?"

"I don't know."

"Will you teach?"

"I may. I'm not certain. I'll be loose for a time, first of all."

"I wish you joy in it."

"Thank you."

This was the most maddening sort of confrontation, for nothing seemed to happen. The Meyer's demeanor was still unruffled. One had, I suppose, to admire her cool. And I found that there were others of her attributes which were admirable. Her calves, for example, were immaculately beveled. Her stockings took on a high sheen in the firelight.

Her course had taken her round once more to Mallory. Now she stood in front of the girl and gazed at her for a moment. "Ah, so sweet," she sighed theatrically. She propelled the girl away from the wall. "I've heard the conditions, Marianne. Might we let the child go to her room now?"

"I suppose so." Marianne had lost the initiative somewhere, but neither she nor I could see how to restore it.

"Go and sleep, my dear," said The Meyer soothingly. She ran her palm up and down Mallory's hip for a moment. "Sleep, darling, and we'll talk in the morning. Such an afternoon it was, wasn't it?"

Mallory nodded a bit, looked in confusion from Marianne to the headmistress, and left.

"Now," said The Meyer as the door closed now we can talk"

"There's nothing to say."

"Yes, there' is, Marianne, and I'm going to say it no matter what threats you make. Threats! Ha! Do you think that I'll be intimidated in my own school, by one of my own faculty? I'll be damned before I'll be."

"Well, damn you then!"

"How can you say that? Did I or did I not give you a job when you were penniless? Did I or did I not know you to teach as you wanted? Did I or did I not support your every idea about school policy? And now you turn around and stab me in the back, before one of the students! And you attempt to use her in a plot against me. I won't have it, do you hear? I just won't have it!"

"Ms. Meyer, I-"

"You've said what you want to say. Well, all right. Just be silent for a moment and hear what I have to say."

"Nothing you say will sway me."

"If that's the case, there can't be any harm in listening, can there?"

When animated, there was something quite striking about The Meyer. I watched this beautiful lesbian as she strode back and forth with short, quick steps, punching out her points before Marianne, and I found that the sight of her was exciting. This was hardly the reaction I had expected, but it was not displeasing. Her hips were very well accentuated by her skirt. Her calves I have mentioned. I began to respond to the mystery of a woman who loves only women. I began to wonder if maybe my capacities would be enough to ...

What egotism! But I couldn't help wondering.

"I began this school from scratch five years ago," The Meyer was saying, "because I thought there should be a place where girls who were of an international background could get the best education they were capable of getting while living with taste and decorum in the modern world. A school where beauty counted, I thought. A place where truth came first, and mediocrity only after that. There's a choice you have to make, Marianne, in this world, and that's the choice of whether to teach the general mass, or whether to teach the best. The best, Marianne. Think of it! A place where the best can get better. A place really to help those special girls to make something truly extraordinary of their lives. That's a worthy goal, my friend. That's worth the effort. It's worth a little confusion and a little difficulty with the average mind. We need these girls, Marianne. These are the girls who will be running the world in thirty years. Theirs will be the choices. Theirs will be the power to make or break. Theirs will be the future. We are teaching the future here! We aren't simply pumping mediocre minds full of meager thoughts. We are doing something great."

She broke off to drink a mouthful of wine. Her face was alight with the grandeur of her conception, and I felt myself growing even more stirred by her than I had been before.

"Certainly, there are philosophical problems here. I admit that. There is the idea that the best will develop anyway. They don't actually need us. But I refute that! How much more easily might the best develop, and to what more glorious heights might they climb, when we do help them. We need all the help we can get in this world Marianne. One of my girls might be the one who makes peace really possible. Or she might discover the way to make energy available to all, forever, for nothing. God alone knows what any of these girls might do!

"Than there's the theory that everyone really is the same, that there isn't any such thing as an exceptional child, and that all girls ought to be treated equally. Well, that's just romanticism, in my view. Of course people are different! Mozart was different from all the other snotty-nosed little kids around. People are different. Oh, I think they should an have equal access, yes. They all ought to have an equal chance for an education, but the special ones need special attention. Or deserve special attention anyway. You know how conservative kids are. They all want to be just like everyone else. I say that we ought to have schools in which it is an honorable thing to be an individual, that's what I say."

She stopped this tirade for a moment to pour more wine. I could see that Marianne was startled by these revelations. I was myself taken aback. Here was something entirely unexpected coming from the heart of this woman I had been thinking of as nothing more than an ogre for the last few days. What was going on? Somehow I couldn't hold onto the fact that she was depriving these girls of ... what was it, anyway, that I had decided she was depriving them of?

"And as for sex," she said.

Oh, yes, it had had something to do with sex.

"As for sex, well, there is nothing healthier for teen-age girls to be thinking of than sex. There aren't any boys here-" she looked at me pointedly-"and, as a result, their attentions are turned toward each other more than they might be otherwise. But they are exploring life! Their horizons are endless, their prospects are vast. Their exploration makes them wiser, greater, more capable of being in the world. You can't deny a vibrant young girl her right to her own body and its sensations. The Victorians were wrong. They had some strengths, yes, but they were wrong in terms of sex. Well, I am not going to be responsible for the imprisonment of any of my girls!"

"But the pressure," said Marianne weakly.

"They're under no pressure. Good God, they like to think that they are, but they aren't. Not from me, anyway, and I doubt very much whether they're under any pressure from any of the other staff. It's the 1970's that they're under pressure from. Every magazine, every book, every film, every newspaper is fined with nothing except sex. They can't get away from it. I provide them with a place where they live in a tasteful atmosphere. That's about all I can do. I tell them the facts as I see them. I provide a forum. They can ask questions. They can explore. And while they do so, they are kept safe from the most serious consequences of their actions. That's all I can do. I can't do any other. They're under no pressure, Marianne. Was Mallory pressured into my bed this afternoon? She was not. She was so eager I could hardly keep up with her. Someone had turned her on to sex with women and she was just joyfully curious. Someone else did that. I didn't."

This, obviously, was a telling point. Marianne grew quieter.

"I'm not going to ask you what pressure that girl is under from you, Marianne. But I just urge you to think about what it might look like from my point of view when you get her in here to confront me, she who spent the afternoon very willingly in my bed-and she who knows that there was no coercion on my part-and do a big number about how you are planning to ruin my reputation if I try anything underhanded about your resignation. Hell, woman, I don't care if you resign! Well, I do, for you're a good teacher, and the girls like you. But I don't care for any other reason. Resign if you want to. Go off with this man to some South Sea island, for all I care. I have enjoyed having you as a teacher, and I'm sorry that you're leaving, but you're not going to make me threaten and scream and tear my hair just so your guilty conscience can be assuaged."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Meyer-"

"Agnes, Marianne. I've told you that a hundred times."

"Agnes. I'm confused ... "

Indeed, she looked confused. She sat back against the pillows on the bed, and stared at the fire, and bit her thumb. My heart went out to her, but I kept looking at Ms. Meyer. (Her status had changed. in my mind. No longer was she The Meyer.)

"Don't worry about it, Marianne." The woman sat down next to my lover and patted her knee. "Don't worry about it. It's an occupational hazard of headmistresses."

"What is?"

"Having their teachers fall in love."

There was silence after this. Finally, to break the tableau, Ms. Meyer asked softly, "It's true, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Well, you needn't sound so miserable about it! It's supposed to be a case for rejoicing."

"But I don't understand," Marianne blurted. "Claudette said-"

"Claudette! I was wondering where you had gotten this idea. I can explain that well enough. I had to cut Claudette's salary. It was hard on her, I know, because she's planning to get married on that money, but I didn't have any choice. She was teaching one less course than she used to, and she was spending so much of her time in Gstaad with Henri that there was nothing really that I could do. I warned her several times that I might have to do that if she didn't take her teaching more seriously. There was a time when I even thought of canceling her contract."

"I didn't know that."

"Of course, you didn't. The grapevine in this school isn't as efficient as people think it is."

Again there was silence. Marianne eventually repeated herself, "I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't be, dear, I understand."

"No, but the thoughts I've been harboring about you!"

"Well, I hope they were exciting ones."

"Exciting?"

"Oh, I don't mean that the wrong way. I just mean that if I was able to get you all churned up, then I must be doing something which is important enough to get churned up about."

"That's very neat."

"It was rather, wasn't it?" She seemed pleased with herself, and she lay back sipping her wine. She even grinned at me. I took the opportunity to grin back and, since she was facing me, to admire the long legs she had shoved out toward the fire.

"Well, so you're going to retire," she said jocularly to Marianne.

"I'm not sure, now. You've rather taken all my reasons away."

"Oh no I haven't. There's still that big male over there grinning at me. I haven't taken him away."

"Better not," Marianne said with playful toughness.

"I wouldn't think of it."

"I would leave then."

"Sure you would."

"Oh, I don't know what to do. What should I do, Alex?"

"It's your choice. I don't want you if you come with misgivings, but I do want you. I want you with an open heart."

"Damn."

"Perhaps we'd better wait until the summer.

"Perhaps."

"The girls would like it if you stayed," Agnes said.

"You drive a hard bargain."

"I'm not bargaining. You're feeling the pressure inside yourself. And that's why you're a teacher worth keeping."

"Thanks, Agnes."

"Don't mention it," she replied, and she got up to pour more wine. She paused beside my chair as she wandered back and asked, "Did you really just meet on the train?"

"Yes."

"It didn't take you long."

There was an expression almost of wistfulness on her face as she said this. I suddenly had a sense of the loneliness that she must feel up here, alone "With her girls-as interested in their futures as she might be-alone with a community of girls who always stay the same age while she gets older. There would be the other teachers, of course, but they were hired for their teaching potential more than as companions for Agnes. There was something very solitary about the sort of life she had chosen for herself.

This was an odd evening, and I would probably not have asked the question I did had it not been so. I had hardly spoken. Marianne had been flummoxed by all the new thoughts about herself and Agnes and the school. Agnes had revealed herself in an entirely new way to us all. But we three had not been together in spirit until now, and the togetherness was something none of us had looked for. It had a unique strength because of this unexpected quality, and I traded on that strength by asking a very personal question: "Are you happy?"

"Happy?"

"Happy."

She glanced over at Marianne, who was still frowning into the fire, and then looked back. "Isn't that somewhat too enormous a question?"

"No. It's simple. Are you happy? Does what you do make you happy?"

There was a pause while she drank more wine.

Finally, "I don't know. I suppose it does. In some ways it does. Yes, I guess so."

I looked at her until her eyes dropped. She gulped the last of her wine and then walked to the bureau to pour more. "Besides, I'm providing a service," she said over her shoulder.

"To them, yes. To yourself? Well ... "

"They're my life."

"They can't be all your life."

"What is this anyway? I made the bed, now I'm going to sleep in it."

"I don't mean to pry. It's just that Marianne and I have been through such a lot of changes lately, and they all have to do with happiness. What it means, what it is, what to do about it. It's on my mind." I stood and followed her to the windows. I opened them to the night air, retrieved a bottle of beer, and shut them again. "I think people should do what makes them happy."

"So do I," she said in a small voice. "So do I." We were standing quite close together. Speaking for myself, I felt quite a distinct attraction to her, and her body language was indicating that she was not ignorant of my feelings. I decided to make a bold attack. "Do you only like ... girls?" I asked.

She looked me in the eye for a long moment. "Are you asking?"

"Are you answering?"

She raised her glass to her lips. Her nostrils were widened, and I thought I could see a flush creeping up her cheek. "I am, if you are," she whispered into her wine.

"Have some more wine?"

I took her by the arm and led her to the bureau. We were standing behind Marianne. I poured her more wine. Our bodies were nearly in contact. I could smell her. She was slightly shorter than I, and I looked down into her face. The tension between us was elastic. It was stretching so far that something would have to happen soon to break it. I leaned a bit forward. I watched her eyes all the while. She did not move, but then neither did she make any gesture of rejection. I came closer still. Her head had not moved at all. Silently, I brushed her opened lips with my own. It was not a kiss; it was a touch. I tasted her breath, thick with wine. I brushed her again. Still she had not moved. Her entire body was rigid, and I touched her shoulders with my hands.

"No," said a small voice, but she didn't draw away.

Once more, I touched her lips with mine, only this time I kissed her very gently.

Still no response. Her eyes now were not even looking at me. I could not fathom her empty stare.

I kissed her again. I licked her lips with my tongue. I breathed gently on her face. I tightened my grip on her arms.

And then a dam broke somewhere, and she plastered her mouth against mine so hard that I was afraid she might break my teeth. It was no kiss. It was an attack. There was nothing sensual about it. Her body was against mine; and she was straining toward me so hard that I knew she wasn't even aware of me, really. It was, perhaps, all men that she was grinding herself against. Perhaps this had been in her for years, this "kiss."

Or perhaps it was something entirely different. I mistrust parlor psychology, especially when it serves to enhance my own ego.

Suffice it to say that she kissed me back. It did turn into a kiss, you see, though it was always a very violent gesture.

"Hey, hey, hey! What's this? What's this?"

Marianne was standing beside us. I felt considerably shamefaced, and I tried to disentangle myself from Agnes, but she would simply not let go.

"You can't have the only man around the place all the time," Agnes teased.

I expected Marianne to be angry, or at least hurt, but I saw no hint of jealousy in her manner as she laid a hand on Agnes' shoulder and said, "He's mine eternally, but I guess you have a right to kiss the groom."

"The groom! Well, congratulations," Agnes said to me.

"It's the first I've heard of it."

"But you'll hear of it again," chuckled Marianne. "Come on, kiss the lady and have done with it."

So I did. Her lips, by this time, were soft, and the kiss was a deep one. Agnes seemed to be exploring a new sensation-which may have been true-and she took her time with it. And then Marianne kissed me, and then Agnes did again, and then Marianne, then Agnes ... They began giggling as they pulled me back and forth between them, and finally we were all in a big tangle of arms and mouths. There was a moment of stillness then, when Agnes kissed Marianne for the first time, but in another moment, all three of us were kissing all three, and the tension had passed.

There was, I must report, a certain false sense of "having fun." It was as though we were all trying too hard. I didn't know how Marianne expected me to act. I wasn't certain just how I felt about Agnes. I recalled our previous wondrous orgy, but that had come upon me unawares, so to speak, and I felt some hesitation in trying to repeat the event. Besides, until this moment, I had not become especially horny. I had had thoughts of Agnes, yes, thoughts which now were being augmented by the feeling of her round breasts against my chest, but they were thoughts only. And Marianne was mine, damn it. I wanted her for myself. It was exciting to see her in the arms of another woman, to be sure, but I wanted most to see her in my own arms. Everything, I reflected, about this entire evening had been slightly out of kilter, and this embrace was no exception.

I believe that nothing much more than this would have occurred had Mallory not walked back into the room. This was what happened before, and here it was again. The girl was dressed now in her robe from last night-and in nothing else, as it turned out-and she stood just inside the door, somewhat hesitant at seeing us all still there and in such a condition, wondering what to do. I had had occasion to be grateful for Marianne's habit of leaving her door unlocked last night but when I first saw Mallory this evening, I was put off by her presence. I had been thinking of bringing the embrace to a conclusion, and now here was this young girl, still aglow from her first two lesbian experiences, standing by the wall and staring at us. The possibilities that were swirling in her mind were clear for all of us to read in her eyes. My guess was that she had returned to the room for just the purpose that her glance intimated, and she was all the more Intrigued by the three of us than she would have been had it just been Marianne alone.

After watching for a moment-all of us watching each other-Mallory quietly closed the door snapped the lock, and began walking toward us. There was a heavy, swaying, awkward sensuality about her saunter. She reminded me of a sun-drenched lioness somewhere on some tawny plain. Her blonde hair was loose, her eyes were heavy-lidded, her stomach seemed to wallow like a ripe bursting thing. Her hands pulled the knotted belt of her robe loose, and the material fell open to reveal the cleavage between her legs, her scissoring thighs, her patch of pale brown pubic hair. The swell of her stomach and her young breasts was hypnotic to watch. As she approached still closer into the silence we had gathered around ourselves, she slipped the robe off her shoulders. The thing settled lightly to the floor, and she stepped out of its puddle as naked and hopeful as ever love could want her to be. Laying a small hand on both Marianne's and Agnes' shoulders, she murmured one word: "Let's."

And that was an it took. What had been a barely erotic moment before became frenziedly passionate. I have no idea how she did it, but Mallory had taken command of the situation. There was in her new grasping for sexual experience the energy which had been missing between the three of us. We all knew what we were doing; we could take it or leave it. Our requirements were different from Mallory's, and we had been content to pass up what would have been for us a session merely of sex. Had the three of us gone to bed, it would have been to release a biological tension. As adults, we had other concerns of a more important nature. But with Mallory, the biological was all there was-and all there should have been. And her electric anticipation as she walked toward us, dropping her clothes, was enough to give us all the common emotional ground upon which good sex has to be based.

Marianne's breath whistled from her nostrils as she felt Mallory's hands grope for her big breasts, and she turned her attention to the naked girl, folding her into her arms and allowing her hands to smooth their way down over the soft rounds of Mallory's young ass. In the meantime, unoccupied, Agnes turned her kisses back to me, and I had the pleasure now of probing her mouth with my tongue in a manner calculated to excite myself. I wanted to make this slow buildup of anticipation as engrossing as I could, so I spent a , long time in her mouth, kissing her, licking the end of her tongue with mine. I found that she tasted quite good, quite fresh, and I luxuriated in that. She was the opposite of Marianne. Where Marianne was big and full of a luminous heaviness, Agnes was slender, slim, a slip of a woman. Everything about her was tidy. In general, I prefer the unknown quality of Marianne's cyclical changes. Every day, and even every hour during every day, she smells different. Her taste is different, depending on the moment. One feels in touch with the inner truth of her body when one day her mouth is like a sea wind at dawn and the next it is stale with wine and garlic. Her cunt and her ass hole, too, go through their changes: fishy, musky, perfumed, bloody, now and then, soapy, bland, intoxicating. But I knew without even thinking about it that Agnes always smelled and tasted the same. I knew, too, what her body would be like, before I even saw it. I had admired the clean lines of her calves in their sheer stockings, and, in a sense, I knew that her whole body would be sheer and elegant like that. I was not disappointed.

Marianne and Mallory had moved to the bed before I finished kissing Agnes. As I nuzzled her throat and ears, she kept her eyes on their liquid movements before the fire. I slipped her jacket from her shoulders without, I believe, alerting her to the fact that I was doing so. Her blouse clung to her round breasts in a lovely way, and I found that my face was pressed against her there, my hands searching for the way into her skirt. I found the catch eventually and pulled down the zipper. The skirt dropped. I was astounded and delighted to see that she wore the old-fashioned stockings, real stockings, and that they were supported by a garter belt. Her panties were, like the garter belt, of a creamy off-white, very pretty, very chic, very translucent. Her dark muff showed through as a tantalizing, tumbling vee between her slender thighs. I wondered if she might truly be brunette, but then, later, I discovered that the hair between her legs was lighter than I had supposed at first.

All this while, Agnes had been watching the lesbian activities before her. Watching them myself, now and then, I saw that Marianne was now naked and that she was kneeling over Mallory's blossoming form, her breasts swaying erotically and just brushing the stiff, pink tips of the girl's breasts. They were grinning into each other's eyes, while Mallory's hand was occupied in the hairy junction between my lover's 'rich thighs. She was very, very slowly masturbating my Marianne, and the sight was a fantastic one.

"I want to go over there," murmured Agnes, and she walked away from me, as it were, in mid-embrace.

Agnes' blue blouse was a short one. The sight of her walking away from me, her blouse not quite reaching the top of her panties, her round ass beautifully accentuated by the satiny material, her garter straps descending to the, dark, tight tops of her sheer stockings: well, it was almost too much for me. I've mentioned before, I think, my reaction to a pretty ass. I pulled my clothes off as hurriedly as I could. Agnes was now standing with her back to the fire, looking down with a serene smile at the slow lovemaking of the two other women. Her hand very gently parted her blouse and slipped it from her shoulders. With a graceful, dance-like movement, she reached behind herself and loosened her brassiere. The white cups fell away from high, round, large-nippled breasts, big, but seemingly less so because of their unusual stiffness. She slipped her panties from her hips and thighs with the same economic grace, and the movement caused her breasts to sway not at all. Then, naked save for her garter belt and stockings, Agnes paused again to watch the activity at her feet. The heat of the fire must have been playing upon her back and the backs of her legs, for she moved languorously as a cat might that has found a warm spot and intends to indulge in a long, purring wash. She was a vivid woman, her shape, her calm, yet she was not as interestingly formed a woman as Marianne. Marianne was exotic, while Agnes was merely chic. As a man who, until the last ten days, had had no special success with women, and who found himself deeply entangled with one woman now, I was relieved to discover that Marianne's body stood so high in my estimation, even when faced with the stylish form of this beautiful lesbian.

While watching the activity before her, Agnes began, very gently, to finger a cunt which I saw to be long, narrow, and with well-developed inner lips. It was not a particularly beautiful cunt, but framed as it was by her lacy underwear, and caressed as it was by her flickering fingers, it had a distinct effect on me.

That effect was all that was required to finish the job of making me erect. Poor old cock, I thought as I started forward toward the clutch of bodies. Poor old thing, you've been overused these last few days. I found myself looking forward to the time when I could be in the same room with Marianne for more than an hour and refrain from becoming excited.

Agnes dropped to her knees, her hand still cupping her cunt, and began to press little kisses against Marianne's side and hip. The hand that Mallory was not using to caress Marianne, she now began using to smooth Agnes' tits until her wide nipples puckered and stiffened into long peaks. The three were totally absorbed in themselves for the moment, and I changed my mind. Feeling detached as well as excited. I chose to sit in the armchair and watch the show before me. I held myself lightly in my hand, masturbating slowly so that the ache would go away and the pleasure would begin. But I found that I was entirely content to sit there and be a participant only insofar as I was able to watch.

Marianne was approaching an orgasm. The continual flicker of Mallory's fingers over her wide, wet cunt and the soft teasing of Agnes' lips and tongue against her sensitive flesh were driving her higher. Her eyes were closed. Her face and breasts were flushing, and I realized that she had forgotten about her trick of swinging her tits over Mallory's. Instead, she was completely absorbed in the wracking approach of her ecstasy. Her torso was thrown back, reared high upon her stiff arms, and her great, melon-like breasts danced their dance for their own pleasure. Agnes had long since positioned herself behind Marianne, so that she was too far away for Mallory to caress. Mallory's hand now clutched Marianne's tit and squeezed it as she propelled the woman higher. Agnes' face was buried in the cleavage of Marianne's ass. God knows what she was doing back there, but the thought of what a lashing her tongue might be giving Marianne's hairy asshole drove the last of the ache and the stiffness from my abused cock, and I found that I was back in the swing of things. Now, my cock just felt good in my hand. I knew that I would come, and I knew that I would probably come again, and the feeling of that hard, long meat in my palm was wonderful.

Marianne began to mumble and cry. "Oh, God," she moaned. "Oh, Jesus God shit fuck! Oh, cunt. Ohh cunt!" And then she came.

She collapsed down onto Mallory's sweaty body. Agnes' flushed face appeared again, a happy grin on her lips. The headmistress rolled herself up onto the bed and burrowed down until she was lying in Mallory's young arms. The two women began kissing, my Marianne having been nearly forgotten. Marianne, indeed, seemed to have forgotten them as well. She lay on her side, her knees drawn up, her hands around her stomach, staring at the fire with sightless eyes. I began to think of going to her and making love to her right then, but the activity of the other two grew more rapid, and I stayed to watch.

Agnes made Mallory lie on her back while she firmly, insistently, pried the girl's legs open. Not that Mallory resisted the intrusion. She could hardly contain her arching and writhing body while Agnes positioned her the way she wanted her. Agnes' right hand alighted on the soft thigh nearest to her, and she caressed with parted fingers the satiny smoothness of the inside of Mallory's leg. She gave the girl a tender, sweetly prolonged massage, occasionally allowing her hand to stray upward and to brush tantalizingly against the curled muff of light brown pubic hair which nestled there. At each of these intrusions, Mallory's thighs pressed together a little to try to capture the wonderful hand down there where she was feeling so good, but each time she did this, Agnes withdrew her hand at the last moment, leaving the girl gasping for release.

This game continued for an extended time. Mallory tried very hard to move her hips in such a way that Agnes would have to stroke her hairy belly the way she wanted her to, but always Agnes resisted the temptation. And the temptation was great, one could see. Agnes' nipples were like fingers pointing rigidly at Mallory's body, they were so tight with excitement. Her own thighs were slowly scissoring back and forth, sliding her soft flesh repeatedly over the intensely alive nerve endings of her inner thighs and cunt lips. I could almost feel the soft, moist, squishy rubbing of those delicate lips as they were forced back and forth by her motions. My own erection was so tight in my hand that I feared I might come then and there and spoil whatever climax this agonizing masturbation before me was coming to. I certainly did not want to come, but on the other hand, my body was so engorged with lust that I was sweating and tickling and groaning without cease. I bent over and rubbed a finger down over my asshole, smelling the erotic odor of my crotch, reeling the jiggling of my anxious balls against the skin of my wrist. I lay back then and opened my legs more, so that I could slide a finger over and over my asshole. The sensation was exotic, and it had the additional benefit of distracting me from my cock. My impending orgasm came under control again. I continued to beat myself off, of course-nothing would have stopped that then-but the position was different, and I knew I could enjoy the spectacle for some more minutes before the crisis arrived.

That is, if their crisis didn't arrive before that. Agnes had now responded to Mallory's bodily pleading, and she had gently opened the girl's lips. Two or her fingers were sliding on the oily surface she had uncovered, insinuating themselves deeper between Mallory's inner lips all the while. I watched Mallory stiffen for a second and then resume her writhing more frantically still, as Agnes rubbed for the first time the straining tip or her aching clit. The girl moaned long and hard as she felt the fingers once more. Agnes was making a plucking motion now, two of her fingers pinching the little button of ecstasy again and again, while the remainder of her fingers wantonly tickled the wet, moist length of Mallory's hairy vaginal slit.

This was too much for the girl. "I'm going to come!" she suddenly cried. "I'm going to come!"

The voice woke Marianne from her trance. My lover rolled over to see what was going on, and a great smile swept across her face. "Yes, darling, come now," she crooned to Mallory, licking her face and her eyes. "Come now, Mallory, darling. Make it come. Feel it come. Feel your cunt come."

Agnes paused for a moment while she quickly shifted her position so as to be able to get her mouth on the girl's quivering pussy. Through lust-dimmed eyes, I watched as she sank her lovely face down into that straining crotch and took up the job on Mallory's clit which formerly she had been managing with her fingers. Her lips pursed, her tongue came out, and then her face was shielded from my view by the hairy thrust of Mallory's hungry crotch. A shattering moan told that her lips had found their target, though, and I watched Marianne, since I couldn't see Agnes. Marianne was excited again by the proximity of this orgasm. I could see that her body was alight with a sexual energy. Her tongue flickered over Mallory's face, invading her nostrils, her ears, her eyes, her mouth, washing across the broad, blonde reaches of her cheeks and forehead. Mallory's contorted face began to be shiny with Marianne's saliva. Frantically, the girl stuck out her tongue and licked back at whatever part of Marianne she could reach. It happened that as Marianne was licking her hairline Mallory was able to reach Marianne's armpit, and with a whuffling cry of ecstasy, she buried her eager face in my lover's warm, sweaty mass of hair. I saw her lips suck as much of the loose, wet flesh as they could into her mouth, and I supposed that she was rubbing her tongue over and over the long black hairs. Marianne lay with her armpit open across Mallory's face, her own face buried in the girl's hair, and with her free hand, not willing to waste the moment, snaking down her own front, until she was able to clutch her newly awakened cunt.

"Yes, Mallory," Marianne urged. "Yes, darling. Suck me. Oh, yes, please, suck me! I love your tongue. That's it. Suck me and come! Now make it come! Make it come, Mallory. You re going to come!"

She was correct. Mallory's hips suddenly began such a frenzied battering against Agnes' face that the latter woman was almost catapulted from her place. Mallory's entire body arched backward, her pelvis way off the mattress, and the position remained for perhaps half a minute, during which nothing at all moved except her thighs, which quivered like water under a soft wind. Then there came a huge, inarticulate bellow of escaping breath from Mallory, and the girl collapsed on the bed, completely flaccid. I am not at all certain that she was conscious at that moment.

Marianne rose from the crumpled bed and walked toward me, her eyes smiling at my scarlet cock. She seemed ripe almost to bursting, and I suddenly felt an overpowering desire to see her pregnant. I longed for the day when her body would be huge with our child, her great breasts sagging under their weight of milk, her belly enormous, her face softened by motherhood. Even at this moment, there was a pregnancy about her. All things came to a stop as she approached me. She brought with her a time of waiting, of hanging, of desiring to be plucked. She leaned over me, her breasts like fruits upon a tree of life, her belly and hairy cunt the ground in which I would plant my seed. There was a mystical quality in her presence. She inspired me to thoughts I had never expected to have. Easefully, she closed her warm hand around my manhood, and as she stood there smiling at me. I came.

I had leaned back when she took me in her hand. I lay still as I came. It was as though I had nothing to do with it. I watched, almost in calm as my rigid cock burst forth with a shower of hot, high semen. Marianne never moved her hand. Simply her warmth around me and the sight of her goddess nakedness above me were sufficient to make the orgasm come. It was excruciating. My cock kept squirting bursts of sperm up at her seemingly trying to bathe her where she stood' each wrench calling forth another to follow it: Gradually the spasms died. Thick, bubbly come oozed from the eye of my cock and rolled down to bathe Marianne's fingers. Her hand by this time was smeared with my effluvium. She never released her grip until the last of the fluid was seeping quietly from my hole. Then she raised her gummy hand and, standing with her legs apart and her enormous cunt suspended just above me, began massaging the sperm into her belly and her pubic thatch. Her eyes never left mine now, although mine were not on hers. I was absorbed in the spectacle of her hands, running so thickly with my come, stroking her white flesh. She stroked and stroked. I saw that she was 'gradually allowing her hands to drop lower and that her hairy lips, now hanging in their swollen openness, were being subtly divided by her fingers. I saw her reach her clit, and I saw her clit itself, stiff with a flush of blood.

At that moment there came a muffled groan, and I looked toward the sound to see Agnes on her knees, her pussy lowered over Mallory's mouth while her fingers sizzled upon her fiery slit. I realized that she had been watching me come and that it was the sight of Marianne covered with my dripping semen that was making her climax so beautifully.

I don't think Marianne knew that we were being watched. I am pretty certain that she wag too absorbed in her own world of the lust of sperm for her to know anything that was going on around her. She reached to pick up my long and now soft cock and to gather up a last fingerful of come. This she raised to her lips, and tilting her head back as though to receive a grape, she let the gob drop onto her tongue. She must have enjoyed that taste, for her next action was to lower herself between my thighs and lift my flaccid. meat into her mouth. She sucked very gently at me, her eyes closed the while, her attention entirely on the hose of flesh on her tongue. And it didn't take long for this manipulation to stir me once more. Watching, still in my composed frame of mind, I saw that my cock was growing. I felt the increased pressure of her tongue and the roof of her mouth as my penis swelled. She was still doing nothing save suck. Now and then her tongue .caressed the underside of me, but that was all. Aside from that, it was simply the sucking which was making me grow. I saw the way my cock stretched her lips more as it increased its size, and then it was clear that she had the entire hard length of it in her mouth, and she very gradually began to pump her face up and down. I loved to watch the long, shiny pole of my prick as it appeared and disappeared in her throat. I held her head gently and her hair out of the way so I wouldn't miss a bit of the lovely sight.

But after a while the moment passed. I felt myself growing smaller in her mouth. I knew I wasn't going to come again, and that knowledge kept me from turning the next corner, as it were, in my erotic mind. I stayed instead right where I was. The feeling of her mouth around me was enjoyable, yes, but of the former blaze of passion there was nothing left. I was interested instead in what was going on, on the bed. I pressed Marianne aside in order to see, and I discovered that Agnes was looking back at me. Or at Marianne's ass: it was hard to tell, my eyes and her ass were both on the same line, and it is an ass which, I have always felt, anyone would be a fool not to look at. Apparently Mallory had finished. She lay in a flung position, her body gently glistening, her eyes closed. I suspected that she was asleep. But Agnes, it would seem, was still going strong. She had been masturbating as she watched Marianne's ass and the way her mouth bobbed on my cock, but now she rose and walked toward us with every intention of taking us both by storm. Gracefully, and almost before Marianne and I knew what was happening, Agnes swung herself into the armchair, her knees straddling my shoulders, and pressed her wet pussy down on my face.

The feeling of her wet hair matting against my cheeks, the suffusion of scent which came with her, and the slippery friction of her stretched membranes against my lips arid tongue rekindled the lust I had been allowing to cool. Marianne felt the change in me, and I was suddenly happy to feel her increased pace. Her hands cupped and tickled my balls, and her mouth drank me faster and faster. Agnes' cunt was sharp in smell. This came from her recent orgasms, I was sure. I licked her loose inner lips apart and applied my lips to her clit. Her groaning was almost continuous now.

The sight of Agnes' spread ass cheeks before her face was too much for my Marianne, and I felt my hard cock now slip wetly from her lips as she raised her face toward this newer target. Her hand closed around me, and she masturbated me awkwardly for a while, but soon the soft sensation of Agnes' ass made her forget her dedication. I was just as happy. I was anxious to do a thorough job of eating the cunt of this slender lesbian, and I needed no extra stimulation to apply myself with a will.

Surprise, surprise! Suddenly, there was Marianne's face below mine, my chin pressing her chin, as I dipped my tongue into Agnes' flowing vagina and as Marianne did the same with the other hole.

Agnes was not unaware of the stimulation either: "Oh, yes, dearest. Oh, my ass! Suck me there! Please suck me there. Lick me. Yes, that's it! Lick my ass! Lick it. Oh, darling, yes!"

But the position was uncomfortable. I wriggled out from under the woman-to her distress-and pulled Marianne to her feet. Poor Anges was beside herself. Her staring face turned to me in an agony of silent pleading.

"Lie on the bed," I ordered her.

She stumbled in her eagerness to get to the bed, and she had flopped down, her legs spread and her hands creaming her pussy, before Marianne and I could get there. Marianne knelt at her side, her hand already trailing down the woman's shivering thigh, when I said to Agnes, "No. Turn over."

Marianne looked at me with a quizzical expression, but I was in complete charge of the situation. I stood tall, my erection violent, my eyes fixed on the beautiful buttocks that were revealed as Agnes rolled over. "Spread your legs."

Agnes opened her legs so that her cunt and ass crease lay in a plump, tempting nest between her white thighs. Marianne's attention immediately went to this tender area, and she dipped one long finger up through the entire length of, the flushed crease. Agnes moaned at the touch, pressed her hips backward against Marianne's hand, and raised herself slightly off the bed. Now her ass was spread open as far as it could be. I knelt behind her and, following the lead of Marianne's fingers, I pressed my tongue down into her seething crevice. Marianne's fingers I took for my guide. Whither they went, so went I. To Agnes' eternal torment, we played a game, up and down and around, never quite touching her stretched asshole, never quite dipping between' her clotted lips.

"Come on," Agnes began to moan. "Do something! I need it. Oh, please I"

Marianne reached to caress my cock while she continued to play her tormenting trade. But now she had a strange gleam in her eye. She was excited about something, and her hand began to work on me more quickly.

"What do you want us to do?" she asked Agnes in a soothing, coaxing voice.

"Anything! But do something."

With my lips fastened on Agnes' flowing gash, I was in a perfect position to see Marianne's fingers teasing the woman's asshole. This tight opening was stretched and red, naked, without the hairy clothing which covered Marianne's own fragrant hole. I watched as Marianne twirled the tips of her fingers on the sensitive place, and then everything was blurred as her mouth came down and she began to lick Agnes there. Her mouth went away again, and now I saw that she was probing her fingertip into the moistened hole. Slowly, to the groaning lurches of Agnes' lungs, she sank her finger deep into the blonde's aching rectum.

"That's it!" Agnes cried. "That's it! Deeper, Oh, deeper. I want it deeper."

But there was no possibility of that. Marianne's knuckles were pressed against Agnes' crease, her finger working in the very depths of the rear hole. In sympathy, I split her open from the front, my own fingers sliding into her dribbling vagina, until I could feel Marianne's finger through the thin wall separating the two channels.

"Oh, fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me darling darling fuck!"

Marianne luxuriated in the tight clasp of Agnes' asshole, rotating her finger and fucking it in and out, and all the while she was masturbating me with her other hand, driving me to a quivering peak. And then, when Agnes was almost beside herself with lust, Marianne withdrew her finger. There was a slight plopping noise as the air she had forced into Agnes' bowels escaped. Agnes' frenzied cry followed close upon this, and she attempted to twist her hips in such a way that her asshole would be in contact with something, anything, that would stimulate it. Very gently, Marianne began to rub the wet hole with her finger.

"What do you want?" she murmured.

There was a' pause while the maddening titillation continued, and then, in a burst of desire, Agnes replied, "Do it to me. Oh, please."

"Do what?"

"You know. Do it to me. I want it in me."

"What do you want in you, Agnes, darling?"

"His ... his thing!"

"His cock? Do you want Alex's cock in you?"

"Yes. Yes!"

"Is that what you said? You want his cock in you? You want him to fuck you?"

"Yes. Oh, God, please! Please fuck me. Make him fuck me."

"I'll make him fuck you, Agnes, dearest. But where do you want him to fuck you? Eh?"

I was on my knees now, my hands lightly resting on Agnes' widespread ass, my cock stiff as a pole, with Marianne's expert fingers still running up and down its length. I was staring at the tight red asshole of the woman bent over so slavishly before me, and I was all the while enticed by Marianne's lightly probing finger there. I knew now what my lover had in mind, and I was frantic with my desire to press myself down into that hot, tight, long channel. I wanted more than anything in life to impale this sexy lesbian up the ass with my enormous cock.

But something else was happening. Mallory was crawling toward Agnes on her hands and knees, her young body already shivering in anticipation. I'm not even certain that she was fully awake. It was the jostling of the bed, perhaps, or the moaning of all three of us, that had stirred her, and tormented by our lust, she was coming to get her own.

"Where do you want his cock?" repeated Marianne, all the while continuing her manipulations of Agnes' asshole.

"I ... I want him to fuck me, please. Oh, please!"

"Yes, but where?"

Mallory was swinging herself around before Agnes, and the woman took her thighs avidly in her hands and dragged the young, swollen cunt toward her face. She buried her mouth in that hairy crotch, and we heard her mumble an answer which was too full of cunt juice and soft flesh to hear.

"What?" asked Marianne.

Agnes raised her face out of the girl's wet quim for a second and moaned, "In my ass, fuck me in the ass. Oh, dear God, please do it ... NOW !" And she dropped her eager lips down onto Mallory's cunt once more.

"You hear, darling?" Marianne asked me. "You hear what she says? She wants it. She wants it in her asshole. You want to put this hard cock in her asshole, don't you? I'll watch while you do. I'll help. I want to see you do it. I want to watch as you fuck her tight ass with long strokes of your wonderful cock. I'll watch, and I'll help, and--oh, give it to her, dear. Make her asshole feel your big cock!"

And Mallory was moaning to the tune of Agnes' expert lips on her furry mouth, "Yes, fuck her there I Fuck her there! I need you to fuck her there! In her ass!"

"Kneel up," Marianne commanded Agnes, and she lifted the woman by the cunt until she was at the right height for my cock. Then she spent a few lustful moments sucking my cock, dribbling her saliva all up and down its length. She followed this by the same moisturizing of Agnes' asshole. And now she pulled me forward and pressed the tip of my cock softly against the wet red spot.

"That's it, darling," she encouraged me. "It's going to feel so good in there, so tight. Look how tight she seems! And you'll fuck her deep, so deep in that hole. Now push, darling, sink your long cock into her asshole."

Marianne reached one hand under Agnes' hips and began to masturbate the woman's clit. "Oh, she's excited, Alex! Her clit is like a balloon! She's going to come, darling. You're going to make her come with your cock. And you're going to make me come, too!" She was, of course, masturbating herself with her other hand, as she so much loved to do.

"Ooooooooh !" Agnes moaned as she felt the first wide thrust of my stiff head in her. I pushed harder, and her exclamation was repeated.

Mallory was watching, fascinated. Her hands were mauling her own small breasts, pulling at her nipples and battering the flesh. "Do it! Put it in," she cried. "Fuck her in the ass! Oh, I can feel it all the way through her and into me!"

I pushed forward some more. I felt as though I had a mile of hot cock to slip into her tight hole. Her ass clung so hard that I almost could not go forward. After each thrust, Agnes tightened her muscles on me and held me still for a second as she got used to the feeling of the great intrusion. Her breath was panting into Mallory's cunt, and I saw that her back and shoulders were flushed with blood. Her arms could no longer support herself, what with my weight on my hands at the small of her back, and her breasts and shoulders were forced down into the mattress. Her face was pressed into Mallory's cunt as much by my weight as by her own efforts. And her ass was tilted into the air at the perfect angle for my long cock to slip downward and into her. I felt enormous to myself and I suppose that I must have to her. She was inarticulate, however, her only sound the wailing groan which seemed to go on and on.

And then I was all the way in.

"That's it," cried Marianne, who had settled back on spread knees, sitting on her heels and was using both hands to masturbate. "Now fuck her!"

As soon as Agnes released me from her velvet clothes, I withdrew my cock almost all the way, feeling her anal canal cling to me as I did so, and then I plunged in once again. Agnes screeched with the awesome thrust, and then I repeated it. Again and again, faster and faster, her ass growing wetter with each lunge, I fucked her ass. I held her hips in a grip of steel, her flesh white between my fingers. I battered down into her while both Mallory and Marianne moaned their encouragement. Marianne came, and she went right on beating herself off, looking for a second. Agnes was screaming. Mallory was writhing. My own orgasm grew closer.

"Fuck me! Oh, fuck my ass! Harder! Please, harder. Make me come! I'm going to come. I'm going to come soon. Fuck it harder! Fuck it hard and come deep in me. Come all over the floor of my ass. Come all over me. Fill me with come!"

And with her last word, she began to come herself. She threw herself wildly about the bed, no longer caring for anything, for Mallory's cunt the girl promptly gripped her own clit and exploded---or for anything at all. She was coming. Her entire body was centered on the impaling stiffness of my cock. Her arms and head tossed wildly. Her screams were continuous. Her humping was entirely erratic. I felt my cock swell in her. Hurriedly, I slammed into her harder and harder, willing myself to come while her orgasm yet lasted. My ass clenched, the air was full of the smell of cunt and asshole, Mallory's fingers were quivering on her clit, Marianne was in the throes of an orgasm right then, everything was sex, all was coming, coming, coming sex: her asshole, so tight, so-oh, God-so-,so Oh, YES! there it comes; there it comes; there it ... Oh, Oh, AAAAAAGH!

I came with a whistling scream as Agnes' orgasm finished. Her body dropped uselessly onto the bed, her legs spread, her battered face and arms flung helplessly. There was no more motion in her, and I felt the hard, tight bursts of sperm erupting in her as I pressed my hips against her flaccid buttocks. Everything was tight, everything was hot, and as I pumped myself into her rectum, I felt her grow gooey and swimming with the hot fluid.

Very slowly, consciousness of my surroundings came back. Mallory once again had passed out, with her hand covering her pussy in a delicate gesture. Marianne was still on her knees, her fingers in her cunt, masturbating, her eyes closed, her ecstasy still flowering in her. Calmly, satiated with my orgasm, I watched as she fingered herself over the peak one more time. Her climax was wracking, and it left her lying on the bed, her eyes seeing only dimly.

"Hi," I smiled at her.

"Hi," she smiled back.

Gently, I pulled my cock, now loose and relaxed, from Agnes' asshole. As the head came free, it trailed after it a long, sticky ribbon of sperm which looped and then fell to soak across the small of Agnes' back and into the material of her garter belt. I noticed then that one stocking was unfastened and had fallen to her knee and that the other one was torn. I supposed, idly, that I had done that, but I couldn't remember when.

Heavily, I collapsed onto the bed beside Marianne. My entire body between my knees and my chest felt empty. I ached everywhere.

"Satisfied?" I asked her.

"Finally."

"Jesus Christ."

"You were beautiful when you came."

"So were you."

"It may be strange to say after all this, but, Alex darling, I love you."

And that, my friends, was the beginning of everything.

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