4 It!

I'm 4 It!

A Compersion Fantasy

by Mae Beucan

CHAPTER ONE

I. "Duet + Duet = Quartet"

It started at a bar on karaoke night, six months before they ended up in a tantalizing and provocative human daisy chain, hundreds of miles from their home, in a hotel corner suite.

His girlfriend's natural flow of conversation in most casual social settings went straight past the weather and into innuendo, jokes, the gritty technical particulars of sex and intimacy, the parts most people spend a lifetime tiptoeing around. She had learned, years ago and more than once, that a woman who talks that way in mixed company can get read as an invitation, and she had fended off enough unintended advances to know the cost. So, these days she puts a toe in first. She stays out of the deep end unless the temperature is right.

It was karaoke night in the late fall when they met the other couple, and in 10 minutes he could tell it was clearly the right temperature. Both couples had come prepared to sing a duet, which was already a funny thing to have in common, and the conversation turned to how each of them had practiced. The other woman, who was petite and perfectly proportioned and the perfect amount of side boob, in an outfit that could have come out of his girlfriend's closet, didn't hesitate at all. Her favorite way to run lyrics, she said, was whispering them into each other's ears while they fucked. Unless he had her from behind. Then the words came out of her in bursts, one syllable at a time, knocked loose with each thrust, and he said them back to her the same way.

Nobody at the table flinched. A laugh erupted from all four that was a mixture of kinship, attunement and buoyancy. That was the end of the small talk. The two women went off on a tirade that ran from sex to home life to work and back to sex without slowing down anywhere, and the men mostly listened, chiming in with a story of their own here and there. He caught the other man's eye more than once over the top of it. Neither of them was really following the conversation anymore. They were both watching their own woman talk with her hands and both men were running the same arithmetic on how soon they could reasonably call it a night, get their respective girlfriend home, and get her splayed out on the bed. He was devising a plan to convince his girlfriend to sit on his face while she sucked his dick. She didn't have to be asked to do the latter, but it took a little coaxing to get her to pivot 180 degrees so he could play with her pussy while she deep throated him.

Still deep in conversation with the new friends, his girlfriend laughed the way she laughs when she's found somebody, and he caught something move behind her eyes, a flicker he told himself he might have imagined.

He hadn't. Over the next six months it surfaced as a joke, then as a hypothetical, then as a suggestion, and finally as a plan stated out loud: she wanted a long weekend for fucking, and she wanted to bring them along.

He was 4 it!

So it was. It was the first time the four of them had been with just another couple. They all had different configurations over their sexual histories. He had participated in many orgy like scenarios, most of them years, if not decades, ago, in the life he had before her.

She, had several 4somes mmff and had a soft spot for mmf scenarios. She knew she had a lpot more exploring left in hers. In three years, there had been mention of it but never priorizizws and now they were both trusting that it would be as hot as it was in their fantasies, at the same time, with each other in the room. He had nothing but eagerness on the eve of their first 4some. The four of them meshed well and the other couple was just different enough to make it exciting.

Not better. Not more. Just different. Novel.

As for the two of them, they were already completely satisfied with each other. This wasn't about finding something they lacked. It was about diving into the unusualness. Shattering convention. Because even when you've eaten the finest blueberries for years, it's thrilling to bite into a strawberry every once in a while.

* * *

II. "I'll Have a Squirt, Please"

It went easy from the moment they stepped into the suite, a corner unit in Portland overlooking Burnside, Voodoo Doughnut a stone's throw away. The sitting area centered around a wide leather couch, one corner draped with a thin cotton blanket stitched from old Indian saris. A low ottoman sat pushed against it. A few steps away, a dusty rose velvet armchair his girlfriend had already declared was her color, a wet bar with a pair of high stools, and beyond the open doorway, the California king waited in the bedroom. There would be plenty of time for the bed later, possibly after the night's anticipation thinned out into something slower.

He guided everyone toward the sitting area. It felt like the right place to begin.

Before the four of them blurred into one another, he pulled his girlfriend close and kissed her, lingering long enough to search her face. He wasn't looking for permission (they'd already crossed that bridge) but for hesitation. He found none. Her gold-and-green eyes glittered with mischief and enthusiasm, she exuded the satisfaction of someone whose plan had come together the way she'd been wishing. She had pursued the couple, booked the hotel suite, and orchestrated every detail. Tonight partly belonged to her curiosity.

It didn't take long before he found himself in a situation he'd mused about but never thought would come to full force fruition. The first few minutes were tentative in the best way. Curious hands. Curious mouths. Little smiles when someone looked up and caught someone else's gaze. There was no awkwardness to push through and no sense that anyone was trying to impress anybody. It either worked or it didn't, and this worked.

The shift happened almost without anyone noticing. A hand lingered a little longer. A kiss deepened. Someone laughed. Someone else answered by closing the distance. Then, almost all at once, clothes started coming off, dropped wherever they landed, forgotten as quickly as they hit the floor.

Both women had dressed with intention. The woman wore a matching satin demi bra and thong that shimmered against her fair skin, full, heavy breasts that swayed when she moved, and a round, bouncy ass in open violation of at least one law of physics. She was short, a little curvier, with loose, shoulder-length strawberry-blonde waves. His girlfriend was all long lines. Taller, cheeky hipsters and a lace crop top that skimmed her body without trying too hard. The lace softened the angularity of her slim frame, while the cheeky cut exposed the low curve of her little booty. She wore her hair in a platinum pixie, somewhere between blonde and white, glinting violet-silver depending on the light, short enough to show the whole back of her neck.

He watched as the other man undressed last. The man was almost as tall as him and thick through the chest and shoulders, dark hair cropped close, a full dark beard trimmed close to his face. Tattoos covered a good portion of his body, more of them appearing with everything that came off. He was already half hard when his briefs came off, and there was nothing modest about what popped out. Thick like the rest of him, heavy, curving up, it looked like a good sturdy cock that would hold up to the debauchery of the night's intentions. The other man looked amused and keen to dive in. He watched the others and looked as pleased to be in their current situation as the rest of them.

There was plenty to watch. The women were peeling each other out of the last of it, the demi bra unhooked and dropped over the arm of the chair, the lace top lifted off over the platinum leaving it tousled. It was still light out, that long summer dusk that takes its time in Portland. The window was open and the city came up through it, four floors of traffic and voices and somebody's brakes. Warm air pushed in against the air conditioned room and swirled together like a soft serve ice cream, hitting the naked bodies with a soft warmth followed by a pierce of cold. The curtains kept filling and falling, filling and falling, and nobody had bothered to close them.

He had completely undressed and was enjoying the breeze as his dick rose with an intense desire. He was the leaner of the two men. A lifetime of staying active was an advantage he couldn't deny. He was muscular and svelte, a high, perfectly round ass, silver chops. His skin was a warm brown, as smooth and rich as jasper, a rock formed when silica-rich water moves through iron-stained ground. His hands were a hand drummer's hands, big and rough and rugged, and surprisingly graceful for it. More than one person had called him an Adonis when speaking about him to his girlfriend. He would roll his eyes when she told him this, but smiled inwardly that she never argued the title.

After the four of them had established themselves in positions using surprising, graceful and improvised choreography, he found his face buried in a soft forest of reddish-blonde pubic hair. Eyes closed, he breathed her in. Warm skin, salt, and under it her sex, the one thing about a person you can't learn across a table. It hit him low, and he let it. He wanted to go at her like he hadn't eaten in a week. Beyond the brambles was a sweet and briny pussy, slick enough that his chin was wet before his tongue had done anything at all. Thin inner lips that barely showed past the outer ones parted easily, ravenous for his attention. His girlfriend affectionately called this particular type of pussy a "slammin' clam." The memory flickered through his mind before disappearing beneath the task at hand.

He took his first real taste and stayed there a second longer than he needed to. Clean salt with something sweeter running under it, thinner than his girlfriend and sharper, a whole different woman on his tongue. He located her clitoris, a quick hunt, and coaxed it out with his tongue. The tiny bud peeked out from its hood and looked like it wanted to blossom and burst at the top of the wet, thin and undulating, pale pink lips, a little fresh water pearl of a clit. Now proud and full. Her thighs had already started to sweat against his cheeks.

His repertoire of cunnilingus skills was vast, a thing he knew about himself and generally had the sense not to say out loud. He worked his way in slowly, building. He started nowhere near where she wanted him, open-mouthed kisses along the crease of each thigh, breath arriving before tongue, long flat strokes over the outer lips that promised nothing in particular. He let her feel the heat of his mouth everywhere except the one place she was waiting for it, and by the time he finally moved to center, her hips had started following his mouth around.

The woman opened for him, uninhibited, her alabaster skin flushing as goosebumps chased across her body.

Years of experience had taught him what patience pulled forth was much better than urgency, and while everyone was different, some principles translated well. Her reactions told him what he needed to know. He paid attention to the pitch of a sound and whether it came out on the inhale or the exhale, a breath that caught and held, the way her inner thighs tensed a half second before she made any noise at all. Her body reported what was working before she did. And when something worked better than she expected, she went silent, and the silence was the tell.

She stood balanced on the couch, feet planted on either side of his thighs, knees resting on the back, giving him easy access while his girlfriend knelt at the base of the ottoman, folded over it, her head reaching past the edge into his lap. The other man knelt behind her at the far end of the ottoman, big hands wrapped around her hipbones, thumbs spreading her open, and fed his thick cock into her with one slow, relentless stroke. A low moan escaped her. The daisy chain had assembled itself, without discussion, each person adjusting until it simply worked. For a second nobody moved. Then everybody did.

His girlfriend had taken his cock completely into her mouth, her lips pressed flush against his pubic bone, pressing her face in until there was nowhere farther for him to go. He could feel her breathing against his skin, could feel the heat coming off her face. Every so often, her tongue slipped lower, toward his balls, pressing lightly against the skin beneath before returning to its place, never quite breaking the seal she'd created around him.

She worked her head around his cock and held it buried as long as her body would let her, throat working, nose mashed into him, spit running out of the corners of her mouth and down his shaft to his balls until they were slick with it and he could feel it cooling on his skin every time the curtains moved. When she finally had to come up she came up slow, letting him drag against every inch of her throat on the way out, and the sound she made doing it was wet and unlovely and one of the best things he had ever heard. And there was a lot of him to lose, long and beautifully made, an easy upward curve ending in a proud flared crown, heavy and smooth and straight enough to take all the way down, the kind of cock that could have been molded and sold as a dildo.

And he didn't rely solely on the structure to do the work. He utilized it to its full potential. He knew when to go slow and shallow until she was cursing him, when to change the angle by a few degrees and hold it there, when depth was the point, and she even loved it when he was just showing off. Her lips stayed wrapped tightly around him, holding the suction as she withdrew until only the head remained in her mouth. She circled it two or three lazy times with the tip of her tongue, tasting herself on him from earlier that day, before she released it, running her tongue from the base up, then brushing the sensitive cleft beneath the crown across her smiling lips as she looked up to gauge his reaction.

She wasn't looking for praise. She was watching his face, measuring his pleasure.

That was what got her wet. Not being wanted, not whatever he'd do for her afterward. She listened the whole time, to his breath, low hums, half-words. She tracked them all. The prize was the whispered "woooooow" when it escaped him: barely voiced, almost growling. She heard it as the sound of a man who felt incredibly lucky. And the face that came with it melted her. When she would glance up, he usually met her gaze. He looked like he was entirely present but had a sweetly surprised, faintly confused, grateful, blissful expression. That sound, that face.

Every time she wrapped her mouth around him, she treated it as an opportunity to learn something new. Could she hold him a little longer? Relax a little more? Notice something she'd missed before? There was a cost to going that deep. Held there long enough, his cock would drop so far down her throat that, even though she hadnt puked, it came back out smelling like vomit, which she had made her peace with a long time ago. Giving him pleasure had become a craft she took pride in, and with every attempt she hoped to become just a little better than the last. He called her Champ. She intended to defend the title.

The woman braced above him, and her eager, taut pussy still had his attention despite what was happening below. He flicked the tip of his tongue over the firm glans of her clitoris before relaxing the muscle and broadening the stroke, briefly surrounding it before drawing the full length of his tongue upward from the base of her vulva. On the return, he slowed, tracing the slick inner folds with deliberate pressure before angling his attention toward the deeper structures underneath, following the line of the clitoral crura where they extended along either side of the pubic arch. His focus faltered only for a heartbeat when he felt his cock swell to its fullest, buried deep in his girlfriend's throat.

Past the ottoman, four or five feet out, the other man knelt behind his girlfriend. The man was facing him. His girlfriend's head was in his lap and her hips were at the far edge of the ottoman, and the man was directly beyond her.

He watched around the curve of the woman's thigh. The man had his girlfriend by the hips and was absorbed in the rhythm they'd found together, and every so often he lowered himself out of sight between her legs to suck and lick and play before coming back up to fuck. The dark head would drop and then reappear, beard wet and shining, and he would go back in without wiping his face. He kept stopping to look at her, and from where he sat, he had a feeling he knew what the man was looking at, her vulva prominent, long inner labia extending well past the outer lips, the rosy tones deepening as she flushed. She called it self-lubricating, in jest, but she wasn't wrong. Turned on, her pussy welcomed all comers exuberantly. The slick had already run down the inside of one thigh. He could see the man's cock each time he pulled back for another stroke, shining and slick with her all the way to the base, could hear it now too, that wet sound bodies make when there is nothing left to be shy about. He also knew what the man was finding inside her, the pronounced ridges along her vaginal walls, a texture that was uniquely her own. Knowing it from the outside was its own kind of pleasure. Sweat had come up across the man's shoulders and down the tattooed chest, and the whole room had started to smell like the four of them. His expression had settled into the unmistakable look of someone no longer thinking, only feeling.

He went back to the pussy in his mouth and worked two fingers into her, curling them against the smooth anterior wall of her vagina, pressing into the tissue behind the pubic bone where his fingers found the hidden architecture of her internal clitoris, where the roots of the complex system live, and he explored the area until she had pressure building into an ache she couldn't tell apart from pleasure. He moved his long fingers along the wall until they reached the Skene's glands waiting quietly beneath the surface, the glands that are the same cellular tissue a man carries as his prostate, built from the same origin before X's and Y's assigned anything.

She was hot inside, hotter than her mouth would have been, and so wet his fingers made a sound every time he fucked her with them. As she got close she clenched down on his fingers, hard, and then again, and her hands gripped his head, over his ears and all he could hear was his jaw moving and his own pulse. When he felt his fingers were in the right position, he started to finger fuck her harder and after he got the right rhythm, depth and consistent stimulation, the glands yielded their milky secretion. He was sliding his fingers out of her pussy to get one in her ass while she came but while he was, out came a larger volume of liquid, clear and hot and hitting harder than he expected, across his mouth and down his chest. It tasted like almost nothing, faintly sweet, thinner than water. She soaked his face, the top of his girlfriend's head and shoulders, and it caught all of them a little off guard.

It was so arousing, the taste, the heat and her trembling body gripping him, it all went straight to his cock. He swelled almost painfully in his girlfriend's mouth and knew he was seconds from coming down her throat. But,

Everything paused.

To be continued......