By Paris Waterman
Illustrated version available on request to Author.
*****
Good things were happening to Paul in almost breath-taking fashion. First, he had received a token payment for his novella, which was promptly followed by a solid $5000 retainer after the publisher had read a rough draft of the first three chapters of his latest novel, with additional funds to follow if and when the subsequent chapters met the standard of the initial pages.
Now with Memorial Day approaching Carol had called to invite him to a Memorial Day party at her publisher's swanky home on Park Avenue.
Carol had suggested that he rent, or buy a tux for the affair and possibly others that might follow.
Paul found that buying was preferable to renting if more than one time was needed, and optimistic about his future, he had one tailored to his specifications provided it was ready two days before the party in order that any late alterations might be remedied.
Carol was stunned by how handsome he was when she opened her apartment door to let him in. She wanted to jump his bones then and there, but forced herself to settle for a long, torrid kiss and a little grouping (by each of them on the other) inasmuch as her dress might wrinkle and those at the party whom she knew would conclude that they had fucked one another either before or after cabbing over to the party.
"Will Sarah be coming to the party with us?" Sarah being the submissive that roomed with Carol who Paul had fucked along with Carol not that long ago.
"Oh, no Paul, she never goes out with me. She's here, taking a bath. Would you care to say hello?"
"Why yes I would, Carol. That is if you don't mind."
"Mind, why on Earth would I mind? She's just a toy to make use of when we feel like it."
And as Paul ventured into the bathroom, Carol used the mirror in the living room to touchup her lipstick and smooth her dress.
The first and foremost thing he saw on entering the steamy bathroom was the lithesome Sarah in the tub with her right leg raised to her shoulder, jamming a dildo into her cunt and moaning happily. Her eyes were closed and for a good twenty seconds she didn't react to Paul's presence. And when she did it was with surprise, followed by a wide smile of welcome. "Did Carol send you to me, Paul?"
"No, I asked to see you, actually."
"You look lovely in your tux. I gather you won't be joining me in my bath tonight." Sarah continued her masturbation as she spoke, making it appear as natural as brushing one's hair in the presence of another.
"Yes, well I am sorry about that, but Carol has promised me a full night of sex awaits us at this party."
"Mmmm, I've heard about Mr. Harshaw's parties. Carol's been to one or two of them. Very risqué. More than that, really. She's heard that on occasion everything goes. Everything! Can you believe it?"
Paul had to smile. Here was a beautiful girl, masturbating before him without a shred of embarrassment talking about a sex party where everything goes."
"It certainly sounds like fun. But I wanted to ask, can I see you without Carol knowing about it one night?"
"Oh, no Paul. That's not the way it works. I'm Carol's not yours; if she wants to share me well ... but otherwise, no. Sorry."
Just then Carol walked into the bathroom and smiled on seeing the look of discomfort on Paul's face. "Don't worry, Paul, I'll give her to you another time. I'm sure she'll be delighted, won't you, Sarah?"
Sarah smiled, "You torture me in the most devious ways, Mistress."
"That's a yes, Paul, in case it went over your head."
"It didn't," he laughed and they made their way out of the apartment and caught a cab.
________________________________________
Jubal Harshaw, their host, and Carol's publisher, boss, welcomed them at the door of his plush penthouse on the twenty-fifth floor, over-looking Central Park just as Paul whipped his hand from Carol's ass, letting her dress, actually a silky black slip fall back to its normal position before their host caught them.
A group of people stood around, chatting, glasses in their hands. Harshaw made the introductions, but the only person Paul had met before was his wife, Kayla, who looked cool and elegant and beautiful with her brown hair in a tight chignon and a blood-red strapless dress. She seemed the consummate Parisian woman: svelte, willowy, and always turned out to perfection. She was much younger than Harshaw and Paul suspected she was not Harshaw's first wife, but more of a trophy.
Her bracelets jangled as she transferred her drink from one hand to the other and air-kissed Carol's cheeks. "So nice to see you, my dear," she whispered in Carol's ear, "It's good to have some new blood in our midst. Plus he's handsome, very handsome and quite intelligent I hear."
Several couples sat around a large magnificent teakwood table. Paul had never seen a table anywhere like it; for it was too low to be a dining table, and although the guests were seated a decent distance from each other, the table served as the depository for their drinks. Moreover, a dining table could be seen in the adjacent room replete with settings, flowers and several bottles of wine.
Paul and Carol were introduced to the others by Miranda Mars, a prominent actress, who had been nominated for an Academy Award the previous year.
Miranda was a stunning woman with auburn hair tied in simple bun as if to challenge the other women who had their hair styled and coiffed by professional hairdressers. It was obvious that she had merely showered and combed her tresses before fixing the bun. As for attire, she wore a cream colored summer dress tied loosely at the shoulders that all but defied anyone close to her to examine the ample cleavage she was able to display by leaning ever so slightly forward. She was the picture of innocence, until she did just that. The fact that she was a movie actress was magnified in that she wore a pair of cute, square glasses that gave her a sharpness that made her look like a top tier attorney.
As Paul took her in, he regretted the lack of time allowed him wanting to stop time and give her a thorough once over, but it was impossible under the circumstances with both Carol and Jubal standing next to him. He did note that Miranda–-he loved the way her name rolled off his tongue–-wore an apron over the dress, indicating that she was at the very least playing a role in the preparation of their upcoming dinner.
She led Paul and Carol to a vacant love seat while Jubal went to make them drinks. Scanning the room, Paul took in what appeared to be two original paintings by Matisse and Picasso, and single, large oil that dominated the far wall which he didn't recognize. He concluded that the fiftyish Harshaw was indeed a very wealthy man.
Paul wondered why an affair of this magnitude hadn't been catered, but had to wait before asking Carol because Miranda began introducing the other guests. Each of whom either stood up or nodded graciously as their names were called.
"On your left," Miranda said, "is Nora Braswell and Mike Hunt. Nora is a model. You may have seen her on the cover of Vogue last December. She's truly beautiful ... as you can readily see."
Paul stood up preparing to greet them. Carol, already familiar with the couple just waved informally to them and remained sitting.
Miranda was not exaggerating, Nora was raven-haired, not overly thin, but it would be difficult to deny that she was the perfect model to wear the finest dress designer's work at the biggest fashion shows in the world.
