Any Friend Of Hers

Dahlia was so excited at the prospect of having her three closest friends converge on us for a dinner party that I could hardly keep up with her. As always, I was a good person to have on the team for menu planning, music selection, and determining which napkins to use. But there was an electricity in the air that wasn’t quite capturing me. Maybe it was because these were primarily Dahlia’s friends, and I really didn’t know any of them that well.

I’m not the type of husband who deliberately segregates his pals and his interests from those of his partner, nor is Dahlia that type of wife. Ideally, we prefer to enjoy things together—be it activities, places, or people. Yet for one reason or another, circumstances had resulted in her forming close friendships with a few women that I never saw much of. She had met Nicole through a reading group, for example. (Personally, though I love books, I can’t stand reading groups. “Shut up and let me read” is my attitude, and this is not a polite position to articulate at a book-club meeting.) Camille was a long-time colleague of Dahlia’s, and Alexandra was her physician. Sure, Dahlia and I had shared some nice evenings out with each of these friends. But busy schedules meant that Dahlia’s interactions with them were most often in the context of quick mid-day lunches or “catch-up-on-everything-in-five-minutes-or-less” telephone calls. So I usually had to settle for second-hand updates, brought home by Dahlia with the leftovers from lunch.

When I returned from work on Friday, Dahlia was in our spare room, aka the “junk room.” I was surprised to find her engaged in some restorative maintenance to her wig collection—a five- or six-piece assortment, dating back to her days as a principal player in a local repertory theater company.

“Nostalgic?” I whispered, as I wrapped my arms around her middle and pressed against her from behind.

Dahlia laughed a laugh of sincere happiness, which seemed to light up all the manifold junk in the junk room. “No,” she said briefly. “Don’t miss the stress. Still enjoying the outcome.” The “outcome” had been that just as the rep company was closing its doors, her relationship with a certain lucky guy became serious—and permanent. She had never regretted the turn of events that had suddenly left her evenings free.

With sentiment ruled out, I attributed the wig maintenance simply to Dahlia’s good habit of taking proper care of things. They don’t hire just anybody as a museum curator, and this was exactly what she had become after the theater’s final season. But the curatorial wig duties that I had interrupted were to be put on hold for about thirty minutes. Dahlia melted and wriggled sweetly in my arms, and we drifted casually but purposefully out of the junk room and into the bedroom.

***

“Do you ever sort of want to fuck my friends?”

It was a strange question to hear on a Saturday morning. Consequently, it was a struggle for me to swallow rather than eject the mouthful of coffee that Dahlia’s query had overtaken.

“Huh?” I laughed. “Last I knew, this was a monogamous relationship.” I looked around from left to right, as though expecting extraneous women to emerge from the pantry or laundry chute.

Dahlia leaned across the breakfast table to give me a light kiss. “I know. That’s why I’m saying ‘sort of.’” She smiled understandingly. “I don’t mean would you seriously, solemnly desire to go to bed with my buddies, in 3-D and real time. I just mean . . . does it ever cross your mind, in an idle way, as an appealing scenario?”

“Oh. Well . . . sure. I suppose.”

Her eyes lit up with interest. “Which ones? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Of course I didn’t mind. We have no secrets from each other.

I shrugged. “All of them, now that you mention it. You have good taste.”

She kissed me again, quickly, as she stood up. “Oops—I’d better get going.” And, in an instant, she was out the door. But I could swear that she had favored me with a split-second salacious wink, right before disappearing.

She was headed to the mall, where she had arranged to meet Camille, Alexandra, and Nicole. None of them were shopping fanatics; but they also weren’t blind to the attraction of the occasional spiffy new ensemble. For ages now, they had all been too busy to try on clothes, and Dahlia had suggested they use the dinner party as an excuse to rectify this. “We’re going to shop all together,” she had explained to me, shortly before asking if I ever sort of wanted to fuck her friends—and in pretty much the same tone of voice. “The plan is for each of us to find one outfit. Then we’re going to wear them at dinner tonight.”

“Do I need a new outfit?” I had inquired. I wouldn’t have objected to sporting a new outfit, in principle. However, the men’s clothes that I happen to find aesthetically appealing all went out of fashion several decades ago, around the time I was born. I’ve often wished that my parents had stocked up on grown-up clothes for me while I was still an infant, instead of plying me with those extra twenty or thirty stuffed animals.

“They won’t have anything you like, sweetheart.” How well she knows me.

“I don’t really have the time, anyway,” I had acknowledged, while giving her bare knee a squeeze under the table. “Otherwise, I would have been happy to tag along, just to watch you try things on.” I had yet to acquire the requisite groceries for the evening, a task I would of course have to tackle before I could even begin to transform said groceries into anything that could loosely be described as ‘dinner.’” Yes, as tonight’s designated chef, my day was spoken for. There would only be five of us—Nicole and Alexandra were both single at the moment, and Camille’s husband was out of town—so this would not be an immense undertaking. Still, I knew from experience that I’d probably do one or two stupid things in the kitchen, before finally transcending my inherent, pathetic clumsiness with my intrinsic culinary genius. And the repercussions of the stupid things usually added at least an hour to the prep time—not to mention complicating the clean-up.

***

These were four very efficient and discriminating women, and they had shopped effectively. Dahlia looked good enough to eat in her peach cocktail dress, her pageboy of light brown hair kissing her gorgeous neck. Each of our guests arrived in something equally striking, and carefully selected for its ability to harmonize with her individual loveliness. For Nicole, whose vivid red curls made many colors risky, it was a silk sleeveless top in a delectable shade of creme, worn with a short black skirt. A slit up the side of the skirt revealed a sassy thigh. Alexandra, who was only a quarter Japanese but whose ultra-straight, ultra-black hair had arrived intact as a legacy from her grandmother, looked fresh as a flower in a jade blouse and form-fitting plum slacks. Soft, round eyes and a button nose added an element of cuddliness to her statuesque beauty. And Camille’s long blonde locks gave the perfect bohemian effect with the low-cut paisley gown she’d chosen. Above her handsome cleavage, freckles danced merrily across the vicinity of her collarbone, resonating with the multicolored joy of the dress.

It was an engaging little soirée. As we dined, drank and relaxed, I had the opportunity to further appreciate why my wife was so fond of these lively, intelligent friends. I was tickled by Nicole’s sardonic wit, seduced by Alexandra’s air of shy mischief, and moved by Camille’s passionate zest for art and beauty. Each woman had her own way of filling the room with grace and delight. And what fitting companions they all were for my Dahlia, whose personal combination of warmth and playfulness twinkled exquisitely throughout the party.

Our guests were absolutely charming. And yet I’m not sure I would have spent quite so much time observing how beautiful they all were, if it hadn’t been for the question Dahlia had asked me that morning. As it was, my mind kept digressing into creative visions of the three women, in various erotic poses. Within the realm of these mini-fantasies, I saw myself mingling with each of them. I could vividly imagine the textures of all their garments as I drew aside blouses, slacks and skirts to squeeze or caress the delicious, bare expanses that I knew lay within. My evening was undeniably enhanced by this luscious dimension to my thoughts—a gift from Dahlia.

“That was so much fun,” I said to her after the company had departed and the place had been tidied up. “What a good idea of yours.”

“I’m full of good ideas,” she answered significantly. “And the fun has only begun.”

I had hoped that she might be horny for some after-party frolicking, and her manner indicated that my hopes were coming to life. But I had no hint of the ingenious treat she had planned for us, until we entered the bedroom.

She had been busy in here while I’d been cleaning up in the kitchen. As a result of her efforts, the room had been prepared for what could best be described as a show. I swallowed hard as I took it all in.

On a couple of chairs by the window were draped three outfits. They were identical to the outfits that had been seen tonight on Nicole, Alexandra, and Camille.

“After lunch at the mall today, I said goodbye to them and then retraced our steps,” Dahlia whispered in my ear. In other words, she had gone back and made a duplicate purchase of each of their outfits, so that she could play dress-up with me.

Then I saw that across the room on the bureau were three of Dahlia’s wigs, poised perfectly atop their stands. One was a curly red wig that recalled Nicole; one wig was straight and black like Alexandra’s hair; and one was a generous wig of blonde that approximated Camille’s distinctive mane. So this was why Dahlia had been attending to her wigs yesterday.

My eyes widened as I comprehended all that she was going to do. I embraced her, brushing her lips with a soft kiss of gratitude. I was tingling.

“Me first,” she said.

And so I eased her onto the bed and busied myself with the delicious peach hem of her dress, wiggling it up high onto her hips. Dahlia had already removed her panties, and her sweet aroma complemented the peachy theme. She tasted like summer as I licked assiduously at her moist, tender pussy. It wasn’t long before she cooed in girlish ecstasy and clamped her soft thighs around my cheeks.

I was so aroused at this point that I stood up, hastening to abandon my trousers and briefs. Meanwhile, Dahlia hopped off the bed and stripped. Her years in the theater had taught her how to make quick changes, and in thirty seconds she had donned the “Nicole” outfit, complete with wig.

It was uncanny. In addition to her instincts and training, part of what had made Dahlia a capable actress was the flexibility of her features. As soon as she was dressed as Nicole, she set her face into an expression that truly evoked her friend’s attitude-tinged radiance. It really almost felt as if I were about to get it on with Nicole, rather than Dahlia. But the deeply exciting thing was the prospect of bedding my own Dahlia while she played at being Nicole.

“Brava!” was all I could say.

Dahlia resisted the urge to speak. She is, of course, an excellent mimic and can imitate the voice of just about any woman she knows—and many of the men. Yet her judgment now told her that adopting an artificial voice could risk turning this moment from bedroom fantasy into bedroom comedy. So she settled for flashing me a wry, Nicole-esque smile. Then she wordlessly oozed her slit-skirted, silken-topped body into my arms.

At times this evening, as Nicole made us titter with her smart little quips, I had felt an idle urge to reach my hand up the slit in her skirt and fondle her shapely ass. Now, with this underwear-free pseudo-Nicole in my arms, I went to town. Her breasts pressed against me through the silk top, each nipple a hardened point of intimate contact, while I gave raunchy squeezes to the contours of her derrière. Eventually, I sent my hand underneath the cheeks to cup her honeypot. Juice dribbled onto my fingers as we navigated back onto the bed. “Nicole” clutched at my cock as we fell onto the mattress.

Courtesy of a classic 180-degree spin and some vigorous skirt-peeling, I soon found myself holding “Nicole’s” bare legs above me, while she positioned her head in my lap. I took one thrilling look at her dazzling red curls as she went down on me. Then I grabbed her ass, lowered her crotch toward my mouth, and sank my face once again into the sweet spot.

Her cheeks vibrated in my hands as my tongue titillated her. Each of her pussy’s wet shudders was seconded in my own vitals, as my prick danced to the soft rhythm of her lips and luxuriated in the velvety textures inside her mouth. As an image of the real Nicole crossing her legs on our couch a few hours ago flashed across my mind, I hugged the pillow of Dahlia’s bottom and my sap exploded. While she drank me in, her sex juice washed like rain onto my face.

As soon as Dahlia had enough energy to bounce back off the bed, she shed the Nicole costume and dressed up like Alexandra. There she stood before me, a vision of jade and plum with jet-black hair, her face an expert imitation of Alexandra’s enticing reticence. Then she turned to the dresser, bent her perfect plum ass my way, and took something out of the top drawer.

It was Dahlia’s special tickle-feather, and no words were necessary for me to understand what she wanted. This was a favorite interlude of ours, when my cock needed a break. As the director of tonight’s little performance, Dahlia had decided that what the shy, lovely character known as “Alexandra” craved was an erotic pampering with gentle tickles and miniature kisses. I had learned how to delight Dahlia in this fashion, and I relished the opportunity to pleasure “Alexandra” in the same manner, until her nipples would strain the soft fabric of her jade blouse and the crotch of her elegant plum slacks would grow slick with nectar. I thought of the actual Alexandra sitting quietly by our stereo, her face blissful as she basked in musical warmth, and how I had fantasized about kissing her cute nose. I imagined how she might have melted into precious bubbles of laughter if I had tickled her breasts through her thin shirt.

Dahlia’s version of Alexandra sat silently on the edge of the bed. She unbuttoned the bottom few buttons of her blouse and lowered the zipper of her slacks a few inches, barely leaving her bush hidden. With her eyes, she directed my attention to her bare feet. Then she handed me the feather and pressed her eyelids closed. She let her arms go limp at her sides.

Experience had taught me exactly what was desired. I brushed her toes with the feather ever so slightly, and I watched her body respond with a sensuous shudder. I leaned in to kiss her exposed belly. Then I let the feather kiss the little triangle of flesh that peeked out from the open zipper. “Alexandra” giggled erotically.

I kissed her fingers. I crouched down and tickled her toes again. I dusted her tummy lightly with the feather. As her ticklish wriggles evolved into gyrations of more intense arousal, I reached under her to feel the wetness that was developing. I stroked her there with my free hand. Before I could give her more than two or three more tickles, her giggles crescendoed into a shriek and I could feel her pussy throbbing warmly against me, coming hard. “Alexandra’s” plum slacks were now a fragrant monument to Dahlia’s momentous wetness.

She could hardly wait to be fucked. She flung the pussy-drenched pants aside, tore off the blouse, and slipped on the paisley gown, her erect breasts bouncing with anticipation as the dress slid onto her. Without even bothering to verify that she’d put the blonde wig on straight, Dahlia leapt at me. Her fiery eyes were at once a tribute to Camille’s aura of artistic passion and to her own sizzling libido. And her ravenous lust was contagious. Over on my portion of the erogenous map, “Camille’s” frenzy of sexual hunger finished the work that the tickle-play with “Alexandra” had begun. My cock was primed for fucking my wife into a woman’s most heavenly state of real-life satisfaction, while my mind indulged in the latest round of make-believe.

Could the real Camille possibly be this wild in bed? I recalled her rapturous discussion of the Post-Impressionist paintings she’d seen on a visit to the Met. “There were so many important canvases I was wetting my pants,” she had proclaimed at one point. She had looked so intense, so aglow in an almost-sexual way, that I’d actually wondered if her panties might be moist from the excitement of reliving her museum experience. I thought of that rapture and that moistness as I plunged myself into Dahlia’s squirming, panting impression of Camille. All was a blur of paisley and blonde as the heat of her cunt cooked me to perfection and I felt my consciousness dissolve into an echo of her throaty, orgasmic roars.

I woke up next to the Dahlia I was used to. She was asleep, her recently-protean face so distinctly her own as it lay in repose. In the best curatorial manner, she had put all the outfits away, including her peach dress. She was nude. She was beautiful. And she was all I wanted.