Dreaming of Multiple Men

Stephanie

The long walk across Hyde Park, past the white lilies and blue petunias, often excites the little girl in me a bit more than it should. Although I’m nineteen, an adult now, being in the park is still one of my favorite activities, even if it’s just during the walk to church.

I brush my fingertips along the soft petals of the flowers that line the path, and a light breeze that passes my feather-like dress makes me smile, which is hard to do these days. This walk is the best part of Sunday mornings—maybe even the best part of the week.

Today is Easter and I can’t say I care much for the holiday. But it’s definitely my favorite season. I love the Spring when the flowers are blooming, and the air is fresh and inviting.

Beside me, cool but endearing, are my parents. Mom’s hand is in Dad’s and she’s doing her best to look happy in that fake way of hers, but I—as well as the rest of the world, I’m sure—can see the numbness on her face.

She’s in her white-laced dress, and she’s clicking away on heels that defy all logic as they balance on the rough path. My dad is in his Easter Sunday best as well and he’s looking sharp—tight-lipped, clean-shaven, his broad face so freshly sheared you can smell the soap on his skin—and he’s wearing all black, from his tie to his perfectly-shined shoes.

I don’t know why he’s wearing black. It’s not a funeral we’re walking towards—my parents’ marriage died long ago—but rather to hear the Easter Sunday sermon in the old, somber Willow Parish Church we attend every week in our small town of Newport.

Every week.

Wash.

Rinse.

Repeat.

I get so annoyed when Mom and Dad act like the perfect couple at church, but I guess it goes along with the way they dress up and pretend everything is shiny and nice on the outside, when really things are a mess underneath.

At home, they barely speak.

I’m not sure exactly when their love died. It must have been when I was in high school and in my own little world. I have happy memories of them from childhood, but then again, we tend to look back on the past with rose-colored glasses. Yet I only distinctively remember them starting to argue in my early teenage years.

Now I would almost welcome those loud verbal clashes they used to have, when compared with the strict silence that surrounds them at home. It’s as if my mom has given up on nagging, pleading with, or yelling at my dad, and all that’s left is seething resentment.

But that doesn’t stop them from being fake at church. They could never show their true selves to the world, of course. Everything between them is strictly about appearances.

Three years ago, they both started only wearing their wedding rings on special occasions.

Seeing the missing jewelry and all that it symbolized angered the child in me, but what could I do?

I couldn’t make them love each other again.

That was not in my power.

I couldn’t then and I certainly can’t now, since it’s been years of this from them.

So, I hold my tongue and drag my feet on the path through the park as they prepare for another performance of how they think a perfect couple should act.

Watching fake love makes me doubt the real thing. That’s why I don’t date. Part of me wants to, desperately, especially because I’m a virgin, but the risk seems too great.

Why fall in love if it will just end in shattered ruins I have to patch up for the outside world to see? The risk to my heart doesn’t seem worth it.

Then again, I am curious about sex.

A girl doesn’t have to fall in love or even date in order to have sex, so maybe that’s something I can experience without letting my heart get involved.

I get the sense that the type of sex I want is different than what most other people want, though. I don’t think having sex with just one man would satisfy me. It would remind me too much of my parents’ boring, stale relationship and I want something better than that.

Many multiple men could do the trick for me.

I hope I’m not blushing too obviously for my parents to see. I shouldn’t be having these thoughts on our walk to church on Easter Sunday yet I can’t seem to stop how they take over me these days.

My panties are instantly damp under the Easter Sunday dress I’m wearing. How I wish I could find an older, handsome guy who knows what he’s doing and who could just reach up under my underwear and tease me by fingering me.

He would be real and true about his desire to do so. Nothing would be fake. He wouldn’t let society hold him back from his inhibitions, and neither would I.

Perhaps he’d take me to the field of daffodils that encompasses one area of the park and lay me down so that he could get up close and personal with me. He’d pull up the skirt of my dress and pull my panties to the side and say, “Let me see that hot little pussy of yours. Fuck yeah. It’s dripping wet for me.”

There would be no denying how hot he was making me. The fluids coming out of my wet hole that he’d be spreading wide open with his fingers would tell the tale.

And what if another guy happened by, who was walking along on the same trail?

A thrill runs through me in real life as I imagine the scene he would come across in my fantasy. I’d be on display for him to see and he would certainly like what he saw.

“Let me in on that sweet action,” he’d say, and the first guy would happily oblige.

These guys wouldn’t have any fear about sharing one woman between them. They wouldn’t be the type to care what society thinks.

In fact, maybe they’d like the idea of being with each other, too.

As this most taboo idea crosses my mind, I somehow blush even deeper.

In my head, the second guy, who is cute and fun, calls out to a friend of his and says he has to come look, too. It wouldn’t be nice of him not to share with his friend!

The third guy would be the most handsome of all, tall with broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw that rivaled his chiseled body.

“Oh, yeah,” I would moan, as the first man played with my pussy for the other two guys to see.

As his finger worked my hole, jutting in and out, the second guy would put his own hand on my clit, rubbing me nice and good until I was writhing in ecstasy, screaming out, “You’re making me cum. You’re making me cum!”

“You guys are going to make me cum, too,” the third guy would say, and I’d look up to see that his big cock was in his hand as he was jerking himself off at the sight of the other two guys getting me off. “It’s so hot to watch you both play with her pussy while I play with her cock. But it’s not fair that no one is helping me.”

“I can,” says the second guy, as he reaches up and takes his friend’s cock in one of his hands while his other one is still playing with my clit.

“Fuck yeah,” says the third guy. “This feels even better.”

He’d play with his friend’s cock to thank him for the mutual pleasure. At the same time, I’d reach over and take the first guy’s cock out of his pants so that he could feel some relief, too.

We’d all touch each other and make each other feel good until they were squirting their cum all over my face and pussy, as my legs were still spread wide for them and my pussy was drenched and happy.

Now that’s how I wish I could spend my Sunday morning, I think, as my parents and I get closer to Willow Parish Church. I want to be with men who are so secure in their masculinity that they don’t mind exploring their own wildest desires along with mine.

It would be fun and forbidden, so it couldn’t last forever. My heart wouldn’t be at risk of getting involved. But my body would be so fulfilled and thrilled that it would never want it to end.

In real life, with me living with my strict, cold parents, it could never work but in my mind, I can’t stop thinking about the way I wish things could be: with me in between three hot men who are ravenous for me—and each other.