They called themselves The Montridge Eight, after the metropolitan
area suburb in which they lived, a thirty-nine-minute commute
to the city, and though the name sounded like an underground terrorist
group from the 1960s, their most incendiary efforts had involved
turning on a Viking stove or lighting a Weber grill. A four-couple
gourmet cooking club, The Montridge Eight met once a month, their
homes revolving as venue, to travel the world gastronomically,
one country and cuisine at a time. Creative professionals all,
they were detail-oriented: an evening's theme would extend well
beyond the food, to the decor, the wine, the music, sometimes
even to the furniture.
Greens, the Blacks, the Grays, the Whites: a box of crayons—an
odd one since the Blacks were not, the Whites were light brown
and the Greens and Grays beige variations. They were the epitome
of sophistication and urbane modern living. The men had long been
vasectomized, completely relieving their marriages of pregnancy
scares and latex fluid barriers. The couples were close and getting
closer. The Montridge Eight gatherings elicited flirtatious behavior
that grew stronger over the years. It began with one foot finding
another under the table, or venturing further, toes slowly massaging
a crotch. Hands would sneak inside waistbands from behind. Soon,
parlor games were incorporated: first dirty Mad Libs—"Name
of Person in Room" particularly revealing—then adult
Charades, followed sequentially by Twister, strip tease,
Strip Poker and Spin-the-Bottle. The Blacks, who lived in a former
firehouse, offered their pole for dancing when they hosted, a
mirrored ball on the high ceiling throwing sparkles over the dimmed
space as each woman spun around the shiny brass upright, inspired
by the thumping disco groans of Donna Summer and company. With
each installment of the cooking club The Montridge Eight became
increasingly daring and experimental. Perhaps it was the Cabernet,
or the Pinot Grigio, or the Riesling, or the Rioja.
beyond familiar, the Greens, Blacks, Grays, and Whites—a
living version of the board game Clue—decided from
the onset that during these occasions they would refer to each
other, including their own spouses, as Monsieur or Madame, evoking
old black and white movies where the husband called the wife "Mother,"
lending the evenings a certain frisson of staged formality—an
interesting counterpoint to the sub-table footsie and miscellaneous
lusty doings—often inspiring unscripted postprandial role-playing
once the couples were back in their own bedrooms:
you do it to me in the Library with The Lead Pipe, Monsieur Gray?"
assuredly, Madame Gray. My very large one. Where shall I put it?"
Montridge's verdant tree-lined streets, a parallel scene was unfolding
at the Green house:
the Billiard Room, on the table, with The Rope, Madame Green?"
course, Monsieur Green. A hog-tie is definitely in order,"
she replied, spreading her excited legs as Monsieur Green undid
his perfectly slip-knotted neckwear, anxious to truss Madame's
limbs, rigid cock pointed towards her from an unbuttoned fly.
The February get-together, at the White home, followed a Brazilian
theme, it being a Saturday coinciding with Carnival in Rio de
Janeiro. Invitations were e-mailed to everyone separately. In
those sent to each Madame, a curious request was made. After noting
her specific menu contribution—assigned from wine, hors
d'oeuvre, side dish and dessert categories; the hosts would
provide cocktails, the main course, and coffee—it was stated:
not already hairless in your nether regions, a full Brazilian waxing
should be undergone the day before The Montridge Eight event. Do
not expose those waxed parts to the Monsieur, let him feel them,
nor explain why. Note: if skin sensitivity precludes the application
of hot wax a cream depilatory may be used.
perfume or scented body lotion.
The Monsieurs received similar directives to eliminate any existing
hair from navel to knees, by whatever means necessary, the day
of the meeting. Monsieur Black was asked to shave off his goatee
and, if queried by Madame Black, to say that he just felt like
a change. The playing field was to be leveled, literally mowed.
Fingernails were to be neatly trimmed.
All e-mails gave the same cryptic proclamatory ending:
evening will conclude with a Blind Tasting.
On February 21st The Montridge Eight will travel further than
they have ever gone.
The Whites: the Monsieur, a film producer; the Madame, an architect,
lived in a house of Madame White's design—a sprawling one-storey
of stone and glass. A central hall was flanked by sixteen interconnected
corridor-like rooms that could be walked through, from one to
the next, with the exception of a guest bath and five sleeping
chambers—rectangular beads on a string, each painted a different
vivid color. Traversing their floor plan was crossing a rainbow.
The Whites joked that their home simply reflected that they were
people of color, but the spatial effect was more than ironic—the
palette had a cumulative beguiling influence.
group ambled through the house, giddily drinking Caipirinha
lime cocktails, the Monsieurs in cashmere sweaters and wool suits;
the Mesdames wearing flowing crepe and clingy silk, tottering
on stilettos and kitten heels—they could be quadruplets
or a ballerina quartet, so similarly sized, shaped and toned from
weight-lifting, tennis and Pilates. The Monsieurs also had comparable
physiques—athletic well-tended bodies the result of running,
swimming, and biking. Even their cocks shared a resemblance, formidable
every one, this mutually and tacitly observed in the pool club
White's custom audio mix played everywhere, emanating from speakers
hidden behind walls: The Girl from Ipanema bossa nova
charmed the Ballroom; a samba romanced the Conservatory; and Carmen
Miranda belted out a frenetic Tico Tico from an unseen
Copacabana in the Lounge. Other rooms featured Brazilian jazz
or indigenous music—natives playing whistles, flutes, horns,
rattles and drums, imitating the sounds of the Amazon Rainforest.
The entire house was animated.
descended from ceilings in almost every room, volume muted, looping
TiVoed soccer games with Brazil always in the lead, teams on each
30" flat panel keyed by their uniform colors to the room
itself. In the blue study two Donald Duck cartoons were projected
onto mammoth screens posted at opposite walls: the mischievous
fowl rescued from the blues by an Aracuan bird in a samba café—dancing,
getting mixed into a cocktail, being kicked in all directions
from between the flesh and blood legs of a woman working the pedals
of a Hammond organ. Keyboards explode: flying ticker tape ribbons.
At the drive-in across the room an artist's paintbrush sketched
blue Brazilian waterfalls—cascading ejaculations on an otherwise
In the kitchen, three varieties of Brazilian red wine stood uncorked,
brought by the Greens. The hors d'oeuvres—ripened
Brazilian cheeses, Broa fennel corn bread and soft Pão
de Queijo rolls (the Grays)—were set out on the soapstone-topped
center island, and consumed standing up, hands grazing rears,
fingers edging shoulders, calves against shins.
the churrasco-style meat was grilled, Monsieur White
carried a tray of loaded skewers to the dining room table.. Madame
White followed with the other foods: Coxinha, chicken-thigh-shaped
croquettes; Feijoada, Rio's traditional black bean and
meat stew (the Blacks); Farofa—a yucca, banana,
egg and onion mix—collard greens, rice and beans, chouriço
sausage, and fried plantains (the Grays).
their places—green, black, gray and white dinnerware indicating
seating arrangements. Orchids lay horizontally above each Madame's
plate. Eight small white envelopes, centered on the dishes, identically
~ READ ME ~
YOUR BLIND TASTING INSTRUCTIONS
printed contents were perused with a grin and a blush, then the
papers slid into pockets or tucked inside brassieres.
the time the meal commenced it was a pure bacchanal, fueled by
the Blind Tasting intimations. Hands, mouths, tongues, foods—all
mixed up—this one feeding that one, the sucking of dripping
meats and fingers, stray morsels licked off cheeks, cashmere,
wool, silk and crepe. Eating utensils were hardly touched. It
was primitive, nearly pagan. Wine glasses spilling and refilling.
Every cock was hard under the mahogany, every pussy ready and
eventually landed, a cloud in a decadent haze—coconut flan.
The coffee, brewed from dark Brazilian beans purchased on Amazon.com,
was drunk slowly, not just for savoring but so everyone could
regroup. The evening was not over, the Blind Tasting still to
selected a bathroom and freshened up on the bidet. Then, arm in
arm, they descended the basement stairs, giggling in unison, flushed
from the wine and the anticipation of what awaited them.
The windowless underground space functioned as a screening room,
draped on all sides with black velvet curtains. It contained blue
upholstered seats from a demolished Broadway theater and a carpeted
podium, at the edge of which—just for this evening—was
a freestanding wall, the meeting's centerpiece. Discovered by
Madame White at the flea market, it was an artifact from a dissected
carnival, part of a game where balls were pitched into open clown
mouths. There were four such faces, each six feet high, painted
mural-style across the partially three-dimensional paneled structure.
Haywire raffia hair sprouted above ears, red punching bag noses
drooped below each pair of wild eyes, and four gaping O mouth
cut-outs—several feet above shoe level—were lined
with red patent leather cushioned lips, worn and battered by a
fifty-year swirling galaxy of balls in motion. A blue velvet curtain
framed the unusual flat. Below each silently hysterical jester,
distinctly shaped black terrycloth cushions—a circle, triangle,
square, and diamond—lay on the floor; stunted tuffets.
the reverse undecorated side, four heavy metal khaki footstools
were planted solidly beneath each portal on the black industrial
rubber tiling. A gag—red ball, black strap—sat atop
each stool. The Mesdames, as per the instruction envelopes, removed
all clothing—tittering nonstop during the unraveling—placing
their garments on the dais, but retaining footwear.
Madame situated her well-toned rear inside an arbitrarily chosen
mouth—like an animal trainer wedging his head into a yawning
tiger jaw—and adjusted herself on the padded lips, feet
kept on the stool, heels hooked into rungs for leverage. Each
Madame took the ball gag and placed it in her mouth, securing
the device behind her head. Each Madame waited.
velvet curtain was drawn, sealing off the clown wall inserted
with the four Mesdames—fleshy pegs, corks in holes—their
isolated asses hanging in a row from gigantic puffy lips.
Monsieurs entered and completely undressed as directed, laying
clothing over the theater seats. There was to be no talking. Each
Monsieur opened a palm-sized purple felt pouch, withdrew an amber
glass vial, unscrewed it, and coated his nostril interiors with
its contents: essential oil produced from Brazil's finest coffee
beans. Spiraled multicolored corded elastic bands emerged next,
to be worn somewhere between knee and ankle, Mini-Sharpie markers
dangling from attached rings—the color of each writing implement
matching the name of the Monsieur to whom it was given; Monsieur
White's coil held a pinkie-length Wite-Out correction pen. Finally,
each Monsieur took a plastic-wrapped slice from the bag—a
cut of mango, papaya, guava or passion fruit—and rolled
it in his mouth, a congratulatory cigar. The Monsieurs approached
the curtain, stepping randomly onto cushions.
lights went off. Noises came forth, a soundtrack of the Amazon
Rainforest: a spectrum of meteorological effects, frogs, monkeys,
jaguars, flowing streams, waterfalls, chirping fidgeting insects,
hissing snakes, crying macaws, rackety Aracuan tree birds, crickety
toucans, vampire bats and other flying creatures.
units plugged into electrical outlets released a rainforest smell—a
pungent mixture of green, orchids, vanilla, cocoa, mango, wood,
leaf and musk. The coffee oil neutralized and masked odors; the
Mesdames alone could appreciate the heady aromas.
curtain slowly opened, its mossy fabric lightly brushing bodies
on either side.
Monsieurs felt an aura of heat at crotch level, issuing from the
darkness-cloaked wall. Their hands, all eight, almost simultaneously,
reached towards the thermal source facing them, as if to unchill
by a campfire. Warm toned round flesh stopped the fingers. The
Monsieurs realized that they were standing at an altar of asses.
Each signed in using his pen, marking X, centered above
the proximate hindquarters, where meaty curve became hard spine.
the hands. They fondled, they prodded, they kneaded. The buttocks
were smooth, every crevice and pussy uniformly bald. Each Monsieur
sampled the sap of the trunk in front of him. Fingers entered
fervent wet openings, rears wiggling encouragingly in response.
Each Monsieur removed the fruit from his mouth and used it as
a pulpy feather, tickling the labia before him, sliding the sweet
piece in and out, sucking it for a moment and pushing it back
inside, sometimes along with a thumb. Then the mouth, licking
the fruit juice off the radiant aperture, teasing its bloated
nub with a fingertip. Then the mouth sucking the slice, now mixed
with the lubricious female secretions and returning to the pussy—kissing,
tonguing, gently nibbling—each Monsieur different but the
the other side of the wall eight knees quivered, mouth gags prevented
voices from calling out, from squealing—blocked them from
adding to the pleas of the macaws, the screams of the chimpanzees,
the chittering of bats.
cocks stiffened in the dark, helped by a firm nectar-sticky grasp
or two and the drum beat, the thunder, the wind, the entire jungle
hum—its acoustical display gradually building in audibility
and intensity. Fingers again at each set of parted lips, or caressing
the orb of a rump. One digit entered an asshole, to the delight
of the identity-unknown recipient, her derrière shivering.
Monsieurs arrived at the same point concurrently, aiming their
saliva-coated cockheads at the welcoming slippery pouts and slowly
cocks, up to the hilt within four pussies, each either unexplored
territory or familiar path. It did not matter—it was the
thrill of the not-knowing, the maybe, the notion that they could
be poking their own Madame or another with whom they've played
footsie, stinkfinger, tickle-rump, and Spin-the-Bottle for years.
could not be transmitted to the Mesdames; Monsieur Gray had to
refrain from his signature figure eight thrust, lest it be Madame
Gray on the receiving end of his carnal movements. But no Monsieur
felt limited and each took his time with the fucking—testing
and withdrawing, diving in again, deeper, harder and unbridled.
The Mesdames, rendered weak by their separate anonymous pleasures,
were slumped chests to thighs, heads resting on knees, while vigorously
being penetrated by unidentifiable thick anaconda snakes through
holes in the wall—each taking a slithering fleshy battering.
Monsieurs were four oil rigs toiling in blackness, grabbing hips
with their perspiring hands, pushing towards the back of the wall.
One Monsieur felt as if he were motoring a foreign car that fit
like a glove, changing gears as he tracked the curves of the road.
The Monsieurs varied and ratcheted their paces, somewhat choreographed
by hypnotic rhythms and screeching animals; two divergent in momentum—one
plunging very slowly, the other jerky and unleashed, spurred by
calls of beasts in the feral night. They could not yell out as
that would unmask their identities to each other and the Mesdames
into whom they were plowing. This proved quite the challenge,
especially for a particular Monsieur. He suppressed Tarzan exclamations
and deep jaguar growling as his cock probed tight flesh gripping
in reply, an invisible smoke signal.
when they came, all four within a short period, as if cued by
the low grunts of a howler monkey, goaded and stimulated by each
other's body heat and the arousing stirring pops of cocks driving
into pussies—the Mesdames pierced on the human skewers nearly
fainting from their own ecstasies; whimpering like birds unable
to squawk—the Monsieurs yowled one collective indecipherable
primal utterance, blending seamlessly with the surrounding untamed
yelping. At varied intervals, four molten spouts poured into four
pussies, dripping onto the terrycloth cushions as each Monsieur
gave his final tremor of emission, the wall shaking and buckling
precariously. They slouched, one by one, breathlessly on the padding
beneath, their ammunition shot, regaining a little strength by
eating any surviving fruit slices, listening to melodies of birds
and streams, their own racing heartbeats adding to the bestial
Amazon Rainforest lulled and the velvet curtain closed. The lights
rose incrementally from pitch black to a steady duskiness. The
Monsieurs and the Mesdames re-attired and gathered their carnival
props, perhaps to be used again during another scenario. They
rested in the theater seats, scattered among a dozen rows, digesting
the activities and recouping their energy. The Monsieurs furtively
glanced at the four Mesdames, and vice versa, trying—unsuccessfully—to
determine who had been with whom. Adieus were finally
bid and the Greens, Blacks, and Grays departed; all Mesdames hanging
on to their Monsieurs, all ambulation irregular, everybody spent.
* * *
It was only at home that each Monsieur and Madame might learn
with whom they had taken their trip around the world. The Madame—a
naked reflection in the bathroom mirror—could, with nail
polish remover and a cotton ball, rub the X off her lower
back. If resisting the temptation to unveil was impossible, she
would look at the wad's colored residue. Otherwise, she would
throw the unglimpsed lump into the toilet, close the lid and flush,
then wash her hands, eyelids shut. If she spotted the family color
she could tell her Monsieur that he piloted the airplane taking
her on that mile-high Brazilian flight, or she could keep the
information secret. She might also dip a finger inside herself
and taste mango, papaya, guava or passion fruit, blended with
her own juices and semen. Then, she could decide whether to call
for her Monsieur, step together into the shower, and suck his
fingers or cock before they turned on the hot water.
The next meeting
of The Montridge Eight would surely be an interesting one.
erotic fiction appears in the short story anthologies "Best
Women's Erotica 2008," edited by Violet Blue (Cleis Press);
"The Mammoth Book of the Kama Sutra," edited by Maxim
Jakubowski (Constable & Robinson, UK; Running Press, USA);
"Frenzy: 60 Stories of Sudden Sex," edited by Alison
Tyler (Cleis Press); "The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica
8," edited by Maxim Jakubowski (Constable & Robinson,
UK; Running Press, USA); "Coming Together: Against the Odds,"
edited by Alessia Brio (Phaze Books); "Sexy Little Numbers,"
edited by Lindsay Gordon (Virgin Black Lace; Random House, UK);
and "The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 9," edited
by Maxim Jakubowski (Constable & Robinson, UK; Running Press,
USA). Her work has also been featured online at Sliptongue, Cleansheets,
the Erotica Readers & Writers Association, and Literotica.
EllaRegina's story, "The Lonely Onanista," was shortlisted
for the 2007 Rauxa Prize for Erotic Writing. When not sniffing
naughty words in the dictionary, the author can be found in her
city or country online drawing rooms, making dirty pictures out
of virtual lint, using a pair of tweezers:
© 2009 by EllaRegina