A Birthday Feast, part 13

lilithdetail.jpgThe sudden appearance of two women at the end of the footpath to this place both startles and thrills me. I am publicly on display, helpless now to do anything about it. I am in no way ashamed of my predicament, but rather humming with the excitement of having been exposed and stumbled upon.

When the introductions are made, the vibration emanating from between my legs doesn’t lessen, but builds. This is a moment about which I have fantasized many many times, and I am nearly overcome with tears that my Lover has gone to such great lengths to fulfill this desire of mine.

I am flattered by Andale’s compliments, and even more by Molly’s visual appraisal of my body. I crane my neck to watch as the three of them set up a picnic, and realize that I am involuntarily licking my lips as I view the show Molly is putting on. Her performance is all the more arousing as it is not meant for me, and watching it framed by Kate’s thighs makes it all the more voyeuristic.

For just a moment, the breeze picks up, and lifts Kate’s see-through skirt enough to catch a glimpse of Molly’s eyes. For that single moment in time, her eyes are locked on mine, our line of sight passing less than an inch below my Lover’s pussy, sea and surf filling the space in the background. She looks away, the breeze dissipates, Kate’s skirt falls back in place, and this work of art is lost forever for lack of a photographer. It is a transcendent picture that is eternally mine alone.

Andale moves to stand above my head, and begins to give directions. The smooth control in her voice and the lilting laughter it carries in its undertones captivates me, and I tilt my head back to take in that beautiful face I have for so long dreamt of touching. The soft swirling breeze of this beach has other plans, the moist and luscious lips that I find teasing and tempting me just out of reach are not on her face at all. I barely notice at first the warm wet oil filling my navel, and it’s only when Molly’s finger begins tracing patterns on my hip that I can tear my gaze away from the charms of Andale’s southern hemisphere. And it is only then that I notice that I’ve become the picnic table from which the others will eat.

Each of these beauties takes her turn with a small triangle of bread, using it like a painter’s brush with the oil as her paint. I am a canvas for each woman’s sensuality, and they are each a master in their own right. Molly is definitely Picasso, explicit lines and angles and cubist-like stokes all pulled together for a specific purpose. Kate’s strokes are much more post-impressionist. Like van Gogh, she is vague and undefined, with just enough of a pattern to declare her intention and mood. But Andale is without a doubt Rembrandt. Her brush strokes are detailed and curved, full of passion, and the desire that fills me is almost a religious experience.

I am become the bread of communion for these three mistresses. Splayed out like I am, naked and vulnerable, I cannot help but see the imagery. “Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me.” I am unwillingly willing, and I can think of nothing else but these three mouths all over my body, I want nothing more than to be slowly devoured by them all, cannibalized in the name of their lust and mine. My head is swimming.

As if to answer my thought, Kate brings me a piece of myself, and feeds me my own body with a kiss of selfless love that touches my soul and yearning for immediate relief. When Andale follows suit, I begin to feel the vibration from my cunt turn to slower, stronger waves, and when Molly’s lips finally touch mine, I begin feeling the powerful pulses that promise the onset of climax.

I want it badly, but our lips part too quickly, and I am left wanting, without breath, unable to answer the question on Molly’s face.

From the edge of my vision, I catch a flash of sunlight reflecting from something metallic, and though I can see that Kate is deftly handling a knife, it is a thought that just won’t register. I file it away in the recesses of my mind, unable to come to terms with any part of reality outside of my own aching cunt.

Like a silent spirit, Andale has appeared before me, and before I can put two coherent words together, she has opened my jaw and slipped a wine glass between my lips. The wine pours into the glass, while the blood pours into my crotch. It is as though Andale is filling my already swollen lips directly from the bottle. She helps me steady the glass, then leaves my field of vision. I watch the wine gently swish in the glass, and I again am brought back to thoughts of communion. “This is my blood.”

It is only now that I feel the cool metal against my skin that I remember the knife. I start, and nearly spill the wine, but once it settles I am drawn to the feel of the blade against the rampant goose flesh that covers me in pleasant shivers.

“Oh and Janie dear, just so you know, I’ve slipped my hand down the front of your lover’s skirt.”

Too late, I remember the wine, and I am doused in the communal offering. It is all I can do to remain still as Molly’s tongue flicks on my throat. When I feel her teeth graze me, I tip my head as much as I dare, praying that she will open me like I am a victim and she is Nosferatu. I need to be entered, and I am willing to be entered anywhere, such is my hum. I care not if I become like the vampiress at my throat. I must be trespassed upon now.

The knife continues to skim against me, but I cannot concentrate. I am torn between the thrill of the cold hard blade and the ecstasy of the warm wet mouth on my breast. I’m totally lost in opposite sensations, and the wetness is running from the deepest recesses of my pussy and soaking the rock beneath me.

Molly’s face appears above me, and she takes the wine from my mouth. I am grateful for the respite, and I accept the gift of a moment to relax. A sip of wine helps me to collect myself a little, and Molly’s kiss grants me some relief. At last she is inside me, and her tongue in my mouth encompasses my universe. When she replaces her tongue with the wine glass, it’s almost more than I can bear. I want to beg, but the wine glass prevents me. I am just about to spit the glass out and scream, when I feel her hand trace its way to my belly.

It’s more than I can hope for, and I brace myself for the disappointment of unfulfillment. It is just then, when I am nearly devoid of hope when her finger penetrates my soaking cunt. It slips inside easily, and I grip it for all I’m worth. It is my lifeline, my guide to what I so desperately crave. The wine is gone, my eyes close, and a second finger struggles for entrance. I comply without hesitation, and prepare for a third.

“Molly! Out!”

No. Not now. Not yet! “Please!”

But she is gone and leaves me with only a gentle stroke as a promise for return.

A Birthday Feast, part 13, written by JanieBelle McKnight. For all parts of the story so far, click here.

~ by Molly Montrevoir on February 27, 2007.

One Response to “A Birthday Feast, part 13”

  1. […] A new voice is heard in Chapter 13 of A Birthday […]

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