Alice, My Uncle, & Me Ch. 03c

The girl, for her part, was evidently a natural redhead, or so it appeared from her neatly maintained patch of golden-red curls at her crotch.

As "Who's Watching Who" began the lighting suddenly changed, and the backup dancers fell into darkness and disappeared, but a spotlight illuminated the lead dancers, who stepped across the little runway and right onto the tabletop, around which we nine were seated. As the music shifted to the much slower Barbara Lewis's "Hello, Stranger," they danced very closely, but with an amazing grace, seemingly effortlessly. It would have been hugely erotic if they had been wearing street clothes; but absolutely nude it was unbearably hot, and as they turned, all of us around the table got excellent views. As they slowly, slowly went through their sensual moves, they began to kiss and nuzzle one another, adding hugely to the heat of their performance.

Because they were dancing right on the tabletop, they were no more than a very few feet from us spectators. We could have (had we not been warned against it) reached out and touched them.

At a certain point they slowed their movements more and more until they were really only undulating to the rhythms of the music, and the guy stood with his legs spread, and the girl slowly, very slowly, worked her way down his front, kissing his chest and then his middle, and letting her hands caress him sensually as she gracefully arrived at a crouch before him, and she took his great phallus in her hands, and slowly, slowly stroked him, as the music slowed still more with the very slow tempo version of "All the Way," by Celine Dion and Frank Sinatra," and beginning with small kisses along the length of his shaft, she moved gradually into a very artful fully-featured fellatio.

There has been significant research done at major labs using the penile pneumophethysmograph to measure sexual responses. The studies use a band stretched around the penis to measure changes in its girth as subjects are shown a variety of sexual images. What's interesting is that no matter what the subjects say in preliminary questionnaires about their sexual orientation or personal preferences or practices or even church attendance, the result is generally the same: The penile responses to images of fellatio are almost always the strongest. The management of the club was well aware of this and consequently this particular practice was the very heart of their show. The red-haired girl was remarkably versatile and talented, not only at giving a blow job, but making it look absolutely great to the customers, taking care that at times she deep-throated the guy, and at other times she worked only on the cockhead so that his shaft was in full view; and that there were intervals of when she was licking the shaft and the guy's balls.

As for the guy, he excited all our admiration, withstanding this treatment so stalwartly, in such a odd public setting, and remaining not only totally rigid and erect, but also continuing to sway to the music - it was "It's Your Love" with Tim McGraw and Faith Hill now - and to look just great as he variously stroked the girl's hair or face.

There wasn't a single one of the guests who hadn't shot at least once by now, and finally the girl reclined fully, abandoning her task at last. And as Otis Redding began his slow, slow sensuous wail "I've Been Loving You Too Long", the girl spread her legs, the guy knelt between them, and gave her a long, soulful kiss on her pussy, and then kissed his way up to her breasts, and then her mouth, as he inserted his long, strong cock into her.

The needs of exhibition, however, took precedence over simple venery, and he raised himself up on his arms and knees, somewhat above her body, to make sure that the union between them was as visible to the customers as possible. And we watched as he flexed his powerful butt to the slow tempo of the music. At the very conclusion, as expected, he rolled off to the side of the woman, and lay on his back as she knelt again beside him and once again grasped his cock, and with a few strokes produced the "money shot": His cum jetted onto his belly in two or three spasms, and he lay there, his chest heaving, as the two of them acknowledged the heartfelt applause of us nine guys.

A brief blackout permitted them to leave the table and stage decorously, and when the lights came back up, the six dancers were now serving as waiters, bringing our first course to us: grilled fois gras, with a mango sauterne reduction sauce. If that sounds fancy, well, hell yes it was fancy. What was it doing in a sex club? Matt had arranged everything. The food had been preordered from one of San Francisco's finest restaurant, only about a block away, and one of their staff was working in the kitchens of the club below to finish and plate the food before it was brought upstairs. Of course this approach was not ideal from the culinary point of view, but it was made to work. On Matt's instructions, the portions were small.

The prohibition upon touching the staff was restricted to their performance, and the charming and beautiful performers, still entirely nude, received numerous admiring pets and strokes as they served us, and they returned our attentions with grins and smiles and strokes of their own.

With respect to the fine wines Matt had selected, he had also instructed the staff not to over serve the guests, since the champagne had started at just after 6 pm in the limo, and Matt did not want to have his guests in a stupor before the end of the evening.

The entrée was a small piece of filet mignon, perfectly finished, garnished with a bit of sautéed frissée, an asparagus spear or two, and a little mound of puree de pomme, the last-named luxuriously dripping with truffle oil.

As the dancer-waiters cleared the main course dishes, there was another change in the lighting and on stage a screen descended from the fly. Matt pressed a remote control and sounds and images began to appear. It was a sort of "This Is Your Life, Mike Burlington." Actually, I was first up. Weeks ago, with the help of my grandmother and mom, I had selected photos of Mike as a boy, and I had sent Matt digital scans of them. He had compiled them into a slide show, and he handed me the remote. I briefly told the guys about what a wonderful guy Mike had been as a kid, as pix of him as an unbelievably cute little tow-headed boy began to appear. Then there was a short piece of action - Matt had converted it from some videotape I'd sent -- of Mike playing tee-ball, and then more stills of Mike as a Cub Scout, and playing the piano, and as a second-baseman on his regional champion Little League team, and as an 12-year old being given a medal at a swim meet, and then a series of pictures of Mike and Sandy, his 8th grade girlfriend, and Mike and Laura, his 9th grade sweetie, and Mike and Marianne, one of his 10th grade steadies. He was cute as little kid, really charming as a boy, but increasingly and eventually shockingly good-looking as a teenager.

When the image of Mike and Laura came up, I held it on screen, and I told a story that I knew to be true.

Mike's mom, my grandmother, was on the school board, and board meetings never took less than 4 hours and often six or even more. One afternoon after school, when Mike was 14, he and Laura were in his bedroom, home alone. Mike's dad was in New York City that day, and his mom was at a board meeting, sure to last until 7 pm. Laura, his classmate and the daughter of a socially prominent neighbor, had been his steady girl for weeks. Mike, completely nude, lay spread-eagle on his bed, and kneeling between his legs was Laura, sucking and stroking Mike, who (the pictures I'd shown disclosed) was already tall and astonishingly well-built and handsome, when his bedroom door opened, and suddenly there was clean laundry flying all over the room. The school board meeting had been cancelled, and Mike's mom had been in the basement laundry all the time. She was bringing up his freshly laundered and folded clothes when she walked onto this scene, not even knowing that Mike was home. What she saw so suddenly so surprised and shocked her that she'd opened her arms and laundry went everywhere.

Registering what was going on, she quickly said, "Excuse me, I didn't know anyone was home," and backed out into the hall. Now you have to understand that Mike was the best kid God ever made. Never in trouble, straight As, always beloved by his teachers and coaches and scout masters, never missed a music lesson or even practice, obedient and compliant at home, kind to old people and animals, and in fine a perfect boy, the absolute apple of his parents' eyes, and he could do no wrong. Rebuking or even correcting him had hardly ever been necessary.

So as his mother withdrew in some amazement, Mike called out through the now reclosed door, "Uh, Mom, can Laura eat with us tonight?"

And his Mom said, "Why not? Looks like she's already started."

"True story," I said, to appreciative laughter.

After a few more shots of Mike bare-chested in a kayak, and on the diamond at the State championship, and finally graduation from high school, I turned the remote over to Jeff.

Jeff picked up with the story at Stanford. There were a couple of grainy snaps of Mike and Jeff as freshmen, together on the quads and on the field; and another showing them in some odd antic in their dorm room; and then there was a photo of the young and remarkably handsome pair in front of a bed and breakfast in Mendocino (they were juniors), together with the statuesque and top-heavy Cecil Twins, Margaret and Mary. And next a very short clip from a home video of Mike fucking Margaret and Jeff doing Mary all in one bed. It had quite evidently been one hell of a weekend at the "Sea Gull Inn."

And then there was a short sequence of about five Stanford Cardinal double-plays, all of them featuring Jeff, and Mike pivoting to Bill; and finally a little clip of Mike hitting the grand slam that clinched their berth in the College World Series when they were juniors.

Jeff passed the remote along to Z, who told about the original formation of the Splittin' Beavers, and he had a few pretty poorly lit videos of them working a club in somewhat grungy downtown Palo Alto. There was Mike in the tightest possible low-rise jeans, with a tee shirt cut a little short, so that his firm, hairy, athletic belly peeked through. He was holding a mike close to his face as he belts out Bob Seegar's "Old Time Rock and Roll"; and another little clip where he's playing lead guitar while Dunc wails Cocker's "You Are So Beautiful."

And then Matt takes the remote and begins a short series of pix of Mike surrounded by his colleagues at work, in meetings, at blackboards, and so forth, and he says a few words about what an important contribution Mike's making to the firm.

Then he says, "Now all of you know what a great guy Mike is, and almost all the stories about him, and his various achievements. But what's not so well known is that he's also a sometime performer in a sex club. He's considered a regular sex god at a place called "English Handicrafts," in London. Mike's mouth dropped open in amazement. To his knowledge, no one except Allie knew about that episode, which had taken place not much more than a month ago during a business trip. But evidently Allie and Matt had been conspiring behind his back, and as he watched the screen, he saw himself tied down to a bed absolute nude, surrounded by a railing at which were standing a dozen nude spectators hardly at arms' length away, as he is being slowly, slowly masturbated by a remarkably handsome man, also nude. Mike full well recalled all the details, how they had drawn out the experience for a full hour; how spectators on two different levels had watched, rapt, as he had been mercilessly slowly pleasured in a myriad of teasing ways, to the delight of the members, who came again and again, their cum splatting onto his beautiful body. And right now, to his continuing amazement, he saw his body in bonds, with any number of places where his body hair was matted by the members' cum. Of course he knew the performance had been videotaped: he'd specified it when he agreed to appear; and of course he and Allie had watched it several times with great pleasure. But he hadn't supposed that she'd give to Matt for this purpose. But after all wasn't this exactly the sort of thing that a great bachelor's party is known for? And, mainly, wasn't she inordinately proud of her wonderful man and his extreme sexiness? And he'd never explicitly told her not to share it; the topic just really hadn't come up. So as the clip unreeled, Mike's best pals in the world were as rapt as the Londoners had been, to see their incredibly beautiful and dear friend as a performer. Several called out, "Hey, I want a copy for myself!"

[For readers of this story who want to know all the details of Mike's adventure, read "Uncle Mike at English Crafty Hands."]

And Matt said, "Hey, you don't have to wait any longer. Our next act on the program is the Man of the Hour Himself, our Guest of Honor, Mike Burlington!"

With this introduction, the screen disappeared, the lighting changed again, now fully illuminating the table, from which all the dishes had been cleared, and suddenly all six of the dancers-waiters reappeared, again totally nude. The dark haired guy that had so impressed Joe during the 'undressing' took Mike by the hand, and led him up the short stairs to the stage, and then the few steps across the little runway to the table top around which his best friends were gathered. The kid pulled off the cotton robe that Mike had still had loosely on, and Mike stood there nude and glorious with his legs widely spread.

Even though I myself am endlessly and continuously fascinated by my young uncle's beauty, and for years and years - in fact since I learned to beat off - he has been the ideal image of sexuality for me, I do not propose her to describe him once again in detail, for I have done so often in the past in the account of how I first became sexually intimate with Mike, my idol all my life, "Cross-Country with My Uncle Mike." But suffice it to say that he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen, from his blond hair and deep blue eyes to his broad shoulders and boyish waist. With his big chest, with its mat of hair, his large arms and legs, covered with crisp golden hair, he was a vision of masculine sexuality. Between his legs lay the center of my sexual universe, his large fat cock arising from a forest of dark blond hair, and his big manly balls. But it was something beyond his physical characteristics that made him beloved of all who knew him. It was in his friendly smile, his kindly nature, his animal grace, his unaffected bearing. It was something close to mystical. And best of all, I knew to a deep certainty that he loved me profoundly, and that, whether examined critically or merely "felt," our love gave every evidence of being inalienable and lifelong.

As the Beatles' "Oh, Darling" began playing, the other five dancers, still nude, came onto the table, and began the routine they called "The Swarm." The first guy, the one who had led Mike onto the stage and table, knelt down before him, and he took Mike's cock into his hands. By now it was completely erect, and it was an object of great beauty.

(As this was happening, I wondered how many of the eight of us in the party had seen Mike's cock erect? Or for that matter had taken it into his mouth or butt? Though Mike and I had had long conversations during our cross-country trip, he was not the kind of guy to name names. I now knew for sure that he and Jeff had had an intense sexual relationship during all four years in which they were roommates and teammates at Stanford; and I thought it was a good guess that Joe and Z, who openly preferred men to women, had had at least occasional contact with Mike, whom they idolized. I guessed also that somewhere in the course of years Bill (Mike and Jeff's infield teammate and close buddy), might well have had at least a one-night-stand with Mike, and maybe a lot more. I felt very certain that Matt and Hank had probably never even seen him naked before, though it was pretty obvious that Matt had very hungry eyes when it came to Mike: but theirs was a highly important and highly ethical business relationship that they would not would have wished to complicate or jeopardize by intermixing personal sexual relations with it.)

The guy began to kiss Mike's great phallus, first the tip, and then he ran a sequence of kisses down his shaft, eventually burying his nose in Mike's thick pubic hair; and then reversing himself, kissed his way back to the tip; and then he took the entire shaft in his two hands and slowly, slowly jerked him. And soon he pressed the tip of Mike's cock between his lips and let it slowly force open his mouth, such that his lips slowly and firmly slid across the broad expanse of his glans, and his entire cockhead disappeared into the guy's mouth, and he began slow, methodical and rhythmical fellatio.

Meanwhile, each of the other five dancers had chosen their own points of attack. One girl knelt and began a gentle worship of his right leg, kissing and stroking it, very artfully and athletically not only with her hands, but also with her beautiful breasts. And another of the girl dancers did the same with his left leg, and she gave herself the pleasure of parting her legs and rubbing her cunt up and down his calf, an act requiring an impressive degree of flexibility. Brian, the guy we'd first met in our 'undressing room' approached Mike from the rear, and gracefully bending his knees just a bit, introduced his impressive erection between Mike's legs, so that it was pressing into the dense tangle of hair there, and at the same time its tip was gently massaging Mike's scrotum from the rear. He nuzzled close to Mike, so that he caressed Mike's entire back with his trunk, and, reaching around to the front, his hands played up and down Mike's belly, from his pubic hair to a few inches above his navel. The remaining girl seized Mike's right arm, and began stroking it, while leaning forward a bit over the others who were kneeling, to place gentle kisses on his right chest and nipple. The remaining boy took Mike's left hand and placed it around his cock, and then drew as close as he could without interfering with the others, and stroked Mike's left arm, and, like the girl, kissed and licked his chest on the left side, and planted kisses on his left nipple.

Mike was enveloped by stroking, kissing beautiful youths. Though much of his body was hard to view under their insistent attentions, interestingly his face was entirely exposed, and we could all see the plain evidence of delight written there.

As he began to breathe more shallowly, if regularly, Joe and Z shouted "Attaboy, Mike!" and "You go, dude!" He looked around and met the eyes of his best friends in all the world, one after another, and smiled broadly.

Presently, however, we were surprised in that the Swarm Team, eased up a little, and pulling on his hands, and pushing on his shoulders, indicated to him that he was to recline on the table, which he did, so that he was right immediately in our faces.

There was a shift from the fellator to a fellatrix, as Donna, the blonde with shoulder-length hair, knelt between Mike's legs. The other five now surrounded him, mostly on their all fours. One leaned over his chest and licked and kissed his right pec; another his left, while stroking his arm. Two others took charge of his long hairy legs, well splayed; and the last kissed and licked his neck and chin and face. Lila was straddling his right arm, and his hand remained free. It was within inches of me, and in a moment he caught my eye, smiled at me, and signaled to me with his fingers to grasp his hand, which I did with my right hand. It was for me an incredibly erotic experience, just to feel his hand in mine, knowing that he chose to share this strange and wonderful experience with me in this way.