Abuse by the Muse

Abuse by the Muse Ch. 6

My deep appreciation to MikePaulWrites for editing this entire series/novella.

Chapter six: Tippi left Drew but Tyler's gone too.

Or, "I'm gonna make you an offer you can't refuse."

She was radiant. The gallery's soft light glinted off the silk of her long hair, a stream of 18 karat gold pouring down her back. She was still slim, almost on the skinny side, but she was moving from circle to circle of admirers with ease and more confidence than she'd had in the old days. Tippi wore the mantle of stardom graciously and with admirable poise.

It had been five years since we'd last seen each other and much had happened in that time. After winning an ADDY, an American Advertising Award for Best Regional Campaign, my little company had prospered and had been bought by Interpublic Corp., a publicly traded communications conglomerate. I'd moved to New York to take an executive vice president position with the parent firm. It was a great job, a little too much administration, a little less creative work than I would have preferred, but I certainly couldn't argue with the high six-figure income, the stock options or the many other perks I'd been given. "I may be a sellout," I'd tell old friends. "But I got a very good price."

There were women in my life, of course. I had money and an influential position at a prestigious global corporation. The fancy gym membership that came with my job helped keep me in pretty good shape. My friends and colleagues' wives repeatedly told me that I was a highly valued catch in the social circles in which we moved. Not temperamentally suited to one-night stands, I'd dipped my toes in the waters of a couple of lukewarm relationships, but the spark, I had to acknowledge, was never fully ignited. I couldn't help comparing the women I met with the woman I'd lost. It was a curse, I thought.

Tippi's paintings had been discovered by an important gallerist, had created a stir at the Art Basel fairs in Switzerland, Miami Beach and Paris, and had been exhibited in museums in Vienna, Los Angeles and Chicago. Her rise in the rarefied world of contemporary art was nothing short of meteoric. Here in New York, her work was being exhibited in a one-woman show at one of the city's most important galleries. One of her paintings had been acquired by the Museum of Modern Art as she rapidly ascended to the highest reaches of the contemporary art scene. Tippi, my small-town girl Tippi, had become the artist of the moment. I thought back on those canvases I'd rescued from the rain in our garage years earlier, now the subjects of worldwide esteem. "Portraits so powerful they override reality," wrote one widely quoted critic.

Our divorce had been amicable. More than just amicable, really. We behaved like overly polite strangers on a train, each insisting that the other take the only empty seat. Liquid assets were divided straight down the middle. We were unfailingly generous with household items. "You always loved that sculpture. You should take it," she would say. "No, you found it, it should be yours," I would answer.

No spousal support was sought. We had dinner together one last time on the day the divorce was finalized, hugged each other long and tightly, professed our eternal mutual affection and swore we'd remain in touch. And then, as life happened, we drifted apart.

The invitation, a formal printed invite from the Petrossian Gallery had been accompanied by a handwritten note. "Luisa told me you were living in Brooklyn and doing really well, and I was very happy to hear it. Please come to my opening, Drew. I would so much love to see you and catch up. With love forever, Tippi."

Tippi was listening politely to a clutch of her uber-rich collectors when she spotted me across the room. She tried not to make her apologies too abrupt as she broke off conversation and rushed across the room to greet me.

"You came!" she shouted, a little too loudly, Half the room turned in our direction and a few cameras flashed as she threw her arms around me and we hugged, almost a continuation of the hug we'd shared on the day of our divorce. For a moment, we stayed silent, words being inadequate to our emotions. And then we both began to babble.

There was so much catching up to do.

Tippi took me by the hand and introduced me to the curious glitterati who had attended her opening. "Phillip Arnault, this is Drew Brody, my very dear ex-husband." They both enjoyed the bemused smiles and the raised eyebrows. "Your ex?" one said. "How very civilized."

Her outfit was boho-chic. A sleek pair of black silken pants topped by an embroidered cerulean blue blazer. The jacket, Drew noted, was the same blue color as the shirt she had worn when she came home from her first weekend romp with Tyler, the same brilliant color of her eyes. Those eyes dazzled me then, and they dazzled me now.

"I'm engaged, Drew. We're going to get married next month. My fiancé is traveling this week and totally bummed about missing this opening. Would it be weird for you to meet my fiancé? I would love it so much. Maybe dinner at our place next Saturday night?"

The company provided me a town car and driver on weekdays, but on weekends, I liked to take the subway, so on the following Saturday night, I left my Brooklyn apartment, hopped on the R train and then a crowded 14thStreet bus to Tippi's place, all the while trying to conjure the person who had become the object of Tippi's affections. Was I up for this? Would I feel competitive? I hoped that whoever he was, he wouldn't be an asshole like Tyler. Maybe I could accept him as Tippi's new partner. Maybe we could be friends, I thought. It had been so good to see her. And she looked happy.

Tippi had recently bought a loft on 9thAvenue, not too far from the Petrossian Gallery. It was a former warehouse that had been converted to luxury condos. I rang her bell and she buzzed me in.

Tippi met me with a hug at her door.

"I can't tell you how happy you made me when you showed up at the gallery, Drew. You're looking really well. New York agrees with you. And now, I'd like you to meet my fiancé."

The door to her bedroom opened and I stared, open-mouthed, as Becca emerged with a smile. "Surprise!," she said. I may have mouthed the words "Holy shit!" I'm not sure. Tippi looked at me and laughed while my mouth stayed open in wonder.

"We thought this might come as a little shock, but we couldn't resist springing this on you. I hope you're okay."

What the fuck! Tippi was always full of surprises.

They showed me around their new home. It was the stuff of Tippi's old fantasies: industrial chic with warm highlights, simple but elegant and above all, comfortable. The art, of course, was striking: a newer painting of Tippi's hung on one living room wall, a large piece by Turkish artist Taner Ceylan -a very evocative female nude--hung on another.

Dinner conversation was light and informative. There was so much to talk about, so many stories we each had to tell. Becca, an excellent cook and ever the health food enthusiast, had prepared a vegan paella which we scarfed with a bottle of good Rioja wine. They were interested in my role at Interpublic Corp. and the way a global communications company worked. ("Sounds kind of sinister," said Becca. She was not wholly incorrect.)

Tyler's name came up briefly. "He's still selling Chevys in Cutler," Becca reported.

"And he's losing his hair. I haven't spoken to him since our divorce was finalized. He was a total jerk about it, of course."

"And nor have I," said Tippi. "He tried to demand one of my paintings. `That's my cock,' he said. I told him his cock had already been well-compensated."

We all laughed.

After a fruit compote dessert, we headed to the living room to sip cognac and coffee.

I sat in an easy chair while the two women took the couch. Becca put her arm around Tippi's shoulder and pulled her in closely. There was a brief moment of awkwardness.

Sassy Becca broke the ice. "So, if the two of us were to ask you to fuck us, which one would you do first?" asked Becca with a mischievous grin.

Tippi poked Beca in the ribs and feigned indignance. "Becca, that is SO rude," she said. "How is he supposed to answer that question? A total lose-lose."

"Well, it's just a fun bit of information for us to gather. Hypothetical, of course."

I know my face had flushed with embarrassment as I tried to stammer out a clever response.

Suddenly, without any warning, Becca disengaged her arm from Tippi, stood up and pulled off her top. She reached behind her back and undid her bra before sitting down again, her breasts a few tantalizing feet from my seat.

"Subtlety was never your strong suit, Becca," I said. "But, you know, nobody here is complaining."

"I thought I'd load the deck a little and give you a sense of urgency," she said., "But if you're not interested in participation, maybe you'd like to start off as a spectator."

She put her arm around Tippi again, but this time she drew Tippi's face to her own and initiated a passionate kiss. Tippi turned away for a moment to look at me, smiling, before she reciprocated, wrapping her arms around her fiancé's waist. The two women kept their lips locked for a good two minutes before Becca reached down to unbutton Tippi's jeans. With their lips still glued together, she deftly undid her partner's belt and slid the jeans down along those long, lean legs. When the top of her jeans reached her ankles, Tippi pulled her feet free and kicked the jeans to the side.

They resumed their kiss, Tippi reaching for and massaging Beca's breast, then gasping when Becca cupped her mound, her hand clasping her panty-clad vulva.

Tippi disengaged and turned to me. "Let's take this to the bedroom, okay? All three of us. We've talked about this. We have unfinished business. Are you in, Drew?"

She had made me an offer I could not refuse.

We were all naked together on the bed and, I was pleased to see that both women, post- Tyler, had allowed their pubic hair to grow back. Tippi's dark blond nether hair was trimmed, her lips visible beneath her soft fur, while Becca's was a thick and untamed thatch, a pubic jungle begging for exploration.

Tippi was on her hands and knees as I entered her from behind. The thought flashed through my mind: "homecoming week," a stupid pun that made me smile as I pumped away at a vagina that had once been a staple of my life. Becca was on the bed beside us, her hand reaching under and strumming Tippi's clitoris. And then, with her left hand, she reached behind and jammed her thumb up my ass. Neither Tippi nor I could contain ourselves for more than a few moments of those ministrations. Tippi came first, yelling as loudly as she had that night when I came home and found her with Tyler. Just seconds later, I experienced the most powerful ejaculation of my 36 years.

Tippi turned her attention to Becca, and I was treated to the sight of my two favorite ladies engaged in a passionate, intensely sensual embrace. Tippi began to slither down along Becca's body, her lips lingering a while at the peaks of her generous breasts, pausing to tease her navel before sinking her face into Becca's hairy triangle. Becca exhaled with a whoosh as Tippi's tongue touched her lips.

"Oh, Tippi sweetheart, give our friend here a refresher course in eating pussy."

I watched closely while giving them space, as Tippi proceeded to flatten her tongue and demonstrated all that I had learned some five years earlier from my cunnilingus instructor. I slowly stroked my penis as I watched, enjoying the sights and sounds of my ex-wife's lesbian passion. Becca's words from years ago flashed inside my mind: "Not just the tip; use the flat of your tongue. Don't make it dainty!"

Tippi ate her fiancé's pussy for almost ten minutes before Becca erupted, clenching her thighs in a convulsive, quivering climax.

***********

The wedding was an informal affair, with about 80 family and close friends gathered in the private event space at Grand Central Station. The 1920's-era Campbell House, with its 25-foot hand-painted ceilings, a grand fireplace and wood-paneled walls, provided a perfect intimate space for the event, elegant, comfortable, festive.

I hugged Tippi's parents and greeted Becca's folks warmly. Becca's mom

remembered me as one of her fourth-grade students. Her father, who was less than enthusiastic about his daughter's same-sex marriage, looked a little bewildered by the proceedings, but gamely carried on.

In deference to Becca's family background, a lesbian rabbi officiated. The two fathers walked their daughters down the aisle and both the women stomped on wine glasses in keeping with the tradition of Jewish weddings. Tippi's best friend Darcy had flown in to act as maid of honor. I had been selected as the best man for the ceremony.

The two newlyweds spent their honeymoon in Bali, but when they returned, we began spending a lot of time in each other's homes, enjoying the loving familiarity of each other's company and exploring the various combinations that a loving sexual triangle makes possible. Months seemed to pass by quickly as our relationship grew.

On rare occasions, Becca, ever the adventuress, would bring home a fourth sexual partner, sometimes men, sometimes women. The level of experience, love and trust we shared among the three of us dispelled any feelings of possessiveness or jealousy. It felt natural.

There were evenings, even on nights when we slept together, that the ladies preferred to keep their lovemaking as a two-person act between them, and though excluded, I was okay with it. They had no problem with me watching and masturbating as they dove into each other's pussies. There were other nights when I would fuck one of them while the other watched or read a book or simply went to sleep. We were easy with each other, a triangular family of lovers and best friends.

Male fascination with lesbian sex is a cliche, of course, but, accompanied by respect and genuine affection, its eroticism became a powerful thing.

Becca and Tippi gradually initiated me into their most intimate sex practices, as if slowly unwrapping precious baubles in a box of jewelry.

We were together one night at their loft apartment when they retrieved a large, flat box from a dresser.

In the soft yellow light of the bedside lamp, I watched Becca slip a black vinyl harness along her legs, securely fastening it with a little buckle on the right hip, then attaching the double-ended dildo to the rig. The apparatus, which slipped into a strategic gap in the harness had three distinct parts. There was a small, sweet potato-shaped piece to fit inside the wearer, with the top end curved for g-spot stimulation and an opposing little flap designed to press and vibrate against her clitoris. For the receiver, the device offered an imposing seven-inch shaft of thick pink silicone topped with a stylized helmet-shape tip. Not obscenely big, I noted, but larger, and certainly a little thicker than me. I didn't know. Should I have felt intimidated? Jealous?

I watched, wide-eyed and fascinated, as Becca fitted the rig upon herself.

Tippi regarded me with amusement. "Don't worry, Drew. This is for us. We're not going to hold you down and peg you."

Becca giggled. "Well, we don't know, Tippi. Maybe he's secretly lusting for my big pink cock."

"No thank you," I said. "But this is an education."

When all was in place, Becca, squirted some lube on the dildo and spread it evenly from the tip down to the shaft. She climbed back into bed and took Tippi in her arms, casting a sidelong glance my way, a teasing look that told me that this was for them, that I could watch but would be forever excluded from this particular ritual.

I sat by the side of the bed and watched them as they embraced, kissing passionately and exploring each other's bodies with their hands. Becca and I shared the same fascination with Tippi's nipples and I began to stroke myself as I watched her cause those sweet nubs to stiffen and swell.

Becca deftly rolled Tippi on her back, spreading her legs and crawling between them. I watched in fascination as she entered her partner with the big pink dildo, forcing a mild gasp of pleasure from Tippi, who hugged Becca tighter as she felt the penetration.

Becca moved slowly, creating an easy rhythm, quickening slightly as the vibrating flap buzzed against her clitoris. The tight lock of their lips didn't prevent them from moaning as they fucked.

Tippi was first to reach her peak. Her legs kicked out as she panted and howled, her arms pressing more tightly against her partner's back squeezing their breasts together, their nipples erect, sweat glistening from their bodies. Becca didn't slow down for a moment as the woman beneath her shuddered and writhed. She maintained her pace as Tippi's orgasm seemed to go on, a continuous, tumultuous "OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod' spasm. I felt a pang of jealousy. Tippi had had orgasms--and still did--when we were copulating, but nothing like this., This was extraordinary.

With a low roar, Becca went over the top. She was louder than Tippi, and it was her turn now to grip her partner. Then, there was stillness. Gentile kisses.They stayed motionless for a couple of minutes, the pink dildo still embedded in Tippi's pussy, the vibrating clit stimulator turned to the off position from its remote controller. Two lovers thrilled to ecstasy, completely satisfied, completely at peace.

And me with a raging hard-on!

After their moment, Becca propped herself on her elbows and looked over my way.

"Uh, oh," said. "Looks like someone else found that experience to be stimulating. Tippi, do you think we should give your ex-husband a hand with his problem?"

Soon, there were three of us lying side by side in a state of pure bliss.

*******

One night at my Brooklyn apartment, I prepared a meal for the three of us. No sooner had we sat down at the table, when Tippi pronounced the words that are dreaded in every relationship.

"We have to talk."

I braced myself for the worst. This arrangement had been nice while it lasted. More than nice. It had become my foundation. I was deeply in love with both of them.

Tippi cleared her throat before speaking. "Drew, five years ago, before our divorce, I told you that whatever went down with Tyler, I wanted to have a family with you," she said, those intense blue eyes boring through me.

"I wanted to have your baby." She paused as I tried to gauge the direction of the conversation. "And I still do. I want you to get me pregnant. Can you do that, Drew? As it happens, I'm ovulating right now."

I looked at Becca for a sign of her approval. She smiled broadly.

"Me too, Drew. We want to start our family together. We want to experience pregnancy together. Our cycles have gotten pretty close. I'm ovulating now, too."

"You'd better get busy, Drew," said Tippi.

My mind raced through scenarios of a future of having children with both of these women. I honestly couldn't think of any other humans in the world with whom I'd rather have a family. Both of them. So wonderful in their own ways. So great together.

My eyes turned to each of them before I answered.

"It sounds wonderful," I said. "There's just one thing I ask."

"And that would be?" said Becca.

"You have to make the decision: who goes first."

It was a wonderful night.

And for now, that is how our story ends.

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