Stories Hub / Group Sex / It Just Is

It Just Is

by HarryC 04/29/05

The phone rang, shrilly in my sleep-gentled ears, and I thumped my hand hard against the bedside cabinet. A more conscious flail on the second ring saw me just missing spilling my water glass over my alarm clock. I got the phone just as the second ring ended.


My voice wavered, thick with sleep. The clock told me it was 4am and I felt like it. My hair was piled on top of my head in clotted curls, and my face was rough with stubble. I'd been asleep for about two hours.

"Hey, Jace, sorry to call so early. Or late. Whichever you prefer." It was Michael, sounding really faint.

I mumbled something, which might have been "no problem", into what I assumed was the phone's mouthpiece. It took me a moment to figure out I had it the wrong way round. "No problem," I said, this time into the correct orifice.

Michael continued: "Anyway, the reason I'm calling is the company needs me to go out of town. There's been something of a public relations disaster – you'll hear all about it tomorrow – and they need me there now." Michael was the most successful of all my college friends. While Melissa and I languished as, respectively, a junior copy editor at a fourth-rate advertising house and a struggling freelance writer, he had rapidly risen to the top. He was the young guy on TV, elegant before the cameras, charming to journalists that would otherwise crucify him with incisive questions.

Not that looks and charm were what got him where he was: his real talent, his genius, was for being able to spin anything. I met his boss once at a dinner party Michael had hosted, and he had joked with me that if Enron had had Michael working for them, the public would have seen them as tragic heroes. He was that good. He was the best.

"Will you look after Sophie for me?" he asked.

"Sure," I replied, "you know we're always glad to have her."

"Thanks," he said. "Just pick her up sometime tomorrow... um... later today."

Over the phone connection I heard a woman's voice calling a flight.

"I've got to go," Michael said. "Oh wait... are you still there?"

I, perhaps falsely, claimed I was.

"I left your tape in the machine. The Oscars? Though I don't understand why anyone would want to watch it. All right, Jace, I've got to go. Talk to you next week."

Melissa roughly thumped on my door and opened it anyway. She'd put on a robe, but left it hanging loose and open, so I could see she was wearing a pair of white boxer shorts and a halter-top that scooped low over her breasts.

"That was Michael?"

It didn't happen that often, but when we got a call at 4am, it was almost certainly him. I told her she was right.

"What is it this time? Oil spill or another celebrity pulled over with a little too much of the wrong kind of coke in the car?"

"He says we'll find out tomorrow," I said. "He recorded the Oscars for us."

She laughed, her breasts rocking lightly on her chest. "Oh well, that makes it all okay. Fuck it, I'm not going to get back to sleep now anyway. Want to go get it and the little bitch?"

"You're not nice," I said. "But yeah."

We both dressed, more or less hurriedly. Inexplicably, but inevitably, Melissa brushed her hair and put on some make-up. She didn't ever wear much, and it didn't take her long, but as the only person we were going to meet was the 65-years-old night doorman at Michael's building, I didn't see the point. I put on the clothes of the night before: black suit over a tight black T-shirt.

Geographically, Michael didn't live far from us; socially we were in different worlds. He lived on the top floor of a building with too many floors for me, all glass and steel, shiny and modern like the world's biggest iPod. Melissa leaned against the glass door and I tapped on it gently. Stanley – that wasn't his real name, but I think every doorman by law should be called Stanley – slowly lifted his head from his desk, straightened the cap on his head. Then he saw who was at the door, relaxed and let his glorious smile fill his face. When Stanley smiled that smile, impossible as it was, he looked to be about twenty. Wearing it he looked so innocent and pure, so oddly beautiful.

He fumbled about with his key chain then let us in.

"Mr. Whitford, Ms. Cruz. Always a pleasure to see you."

I grinned at him, "Please, Stanley, its Jason and Melissa."

He nodded, even though we all knew he'd never call either of us by our first names. "Guess Mr. Roxburgh has been called away again. You know he's never once woken me up, and he has to come through the lobby." He called an elevator for us, and we headed up to Michael's home.

It was decorated and furnished with the sort of exquisite restraint that nonetheless screams of the vast amounts of money used to create it. The flooring was a mix of genuine hardwood and wool carpets thicker than my mattress. The majority of the furniture was hardwood too, his bureau, his desk, his tables. His sofa and chairs were a mix of wood and fine, Italian leather. The walls were all carefully chosen shades, designed to make an already expansive home seem positively elephantine.

"Sophie," Melissa called. "Come here girl."

There was a rough skittering, and I winced, thinking of those wooden floors. Sophie appeared, brown eyes glossy with pleasure at seeing us, a big smile on her face, her golden tail wagging furiously. I patted her for a while, rubbing the groove in her head just the way she liked it, and Melissa threw herself down on the sofa with about as much care as Sophie had shown for the floors. Sophie liked Melissa better, though, and soon was pressing her black nose against Melissa's thigh.

"So," Melissa said, "do you want to watch them here, or take the tape home with us?"

I was in the kitchen, collecting Sophie's food and water dishes, a bag of kibble and searching for the lead. "Oh, come on, Mel... oh there it is."


"Nothing, I just found the lead."

"You know it's always in the cupboard to the right of the one under the sink."

"I forgot."

"Well," she repeated, "here or at home?"

"Neither one of us can work his system, Mel, you know that."

Another of Michael's luxuries was his home cinema set-up, which incorporated an enormous TV, several DVD players, two DVD writers, a CD player and an amplifier/control box that was so complex Melissa and I had never successfully managed to turn the thing on without Michael's help. Fortunately, as Melissa and I's DVD player was so out of date it couldn't play recordable DVDs, he also had a VCR. Despite the technology being outmoded, his was nevertheless vastly superior to every model I'd ever seen in a store.

With a bit of work, Melissa and I ejected the tape and managed to get Sophie on her lead. The latter was so keen to be patted that I said to Melissa, "that dog's practically going down on you."

"And with a tongue like that... rrowr!" she replied.

When we got back, we shoved the video into the machine and we curled up on the sofa, Melissa's long, sweeping brown hair tickling my chin, our feet mingling around the ankles. I hit play on the remote, then dropped it on the coffee table and wrapped my arms round Mel.

The video stuttered then snapped to life, the TV screen rapidly switching from utter blackness to dazzling summer light. The transition was so jarring, it took Melissa and I a moment to realise what we were seeing. It was obviously from a camcorder and instead of the tacky gold and dark rose of the Oscar's, the screen was filled with pale yellow, vibrant green and dusty pink.

We were watching a young girl, perhaps nineteen, posing with one hand on a railing amongst all the glorious excess of a garden at the height of summer. The flowers were all open, and not yet parched by the sun, bushes glimmered palely and birdsong was picked up by the camcorder's microphone. The girl wore a sheer silk print dress, her small nipples peaking through the fabric, the hemline somewhere just below the curve of her ass.

The girl looked off camera and smiled, her white teeth pressed alluring against her full bottom lip. She placed her hands crossed on her shoulders and ran them down her body, first crossing each other, then hefting her breasts and cupping her nipples. Her fingers danced with each other as they dallied over her flat tummy, then her right hand travelled to the hem of her dress as her left cupped her sex through the sheer material.

When her left hand moved, the silk still clung to her pussy, a dark stain seeping slowly through the material. Using both hands the girl began to shimmy the dress up over her ample ass. She slowly rotated as she did so, until her bottom was pouting sweetly at the camera. She wiggled it as the dress edged slowly up, her legs spread and her arms braced on the railing.

Oddly, I felt my cock stirring. It was pressed right against Melissa's buttocks, but fortunately she was too caught up in the tape to notice.

"Should we be watching this?" I asked, as the girl's olive labia became visible between her spread legs.

"Mmm? Oh, of course," she replied. "And don't you want to see what Michael's dick looks like?"

As we kept watching, the inner folds of the girl's pussy appeared. The dark olive of her labia was a shocking contrast to the candy pink of her intimate flesh. Luckily I had adjusted myself, otherwise my now raging hard-on would be buried up my best friend's ass.

The girl had an exquisite back, over which the dress glided slowly. The muscle and bone moved with utter grace as she swept the fabric over her head. As the garment dropped in slow, fluttering strokes to the ground, her long blond hair swung about her shoulders. She looked over her shoulder – but again, not at the camera – and smiled.

She turned. Her breasts were round and full, tanned all over with tiny pale nipples. Her pussy was bare, with only a thin triangle of blond hair above it. I thought I could smell her arousal.

She began to walk towards whomever her show had been directed to, and the camera followed. Just as she reached him, the camera revealed Michael sprawled naked on a lounger, his arousal fully evident.

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