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put it on top of my sex, lined the slit from the washcloth up with the opening that nature had given me. I moaned. The heat from the towel felt amazing. Bret leaned forward and put his tongue through the slit of the towel. It was mind-blowing. It was the best tongue massage I had ever had. Like fingerprints, everyone’s tongue print was different. His was unforgettable. He ate me and stimulated my nipples, made my body surge with oxytocin, enough to drown us both. I died. Over and over I saw more than one hundred billion galaxies, saw a billion stars, and I died.
    When the towel cooled down, he put it back in the bowl and took out the other warmed towel; wrung it out, lined it up, and again gave me his tongue. His tongue went so deep. The heat from his mouth, the heat from the towels, indescribable. It was the best oral orgasm I’d ever felt. He had left me spent. I was a sweaty Trinidadian rag doll with a sensitive clitoris and nipples and reddened skin and a satisfied smile. There were forty-five miles of nerves in the skin of a human being. He had kissed every inch of mine.
    He had told me, “I’ve never been to bed with a woman born in another country.”
    â€œIs it any different?”
    â€œMaybe because this scenario is new to me. You’re amazing. Both of you are amazing.”
    Then we had looked over at her. The woman we had picked up while barhopping. We had found her partying at Rooftop 866, enjoying the spectacular view as we swayed to the rhythm of the house beats. She had looked like a good girl, like Carrie Underwood, but she was a tourist, a Vancouverite in town for a weekend of fun, the whiskey in her blood sending her to us, making her join in as we had danced, making her smile that smile of debauchery. Bret had told her that she was sweeter than a Krispy Kreme doughnut when the HOT light was turned on. The hue of her skin, her nice frame, and the electricity that ran when she touched us, it had caused Bret to look at us, try to understand if he had to pick one of us, but when I had asked them if they were good at sharing, when she had smiled, then when Bret had smiled like he was the luckiest man on the planet. It had been a three-way at the W Midtown. We had been in an unscheduled ménage à trois. He had taken a warm towel to her, pleased her as I squeezed and kissed her breasts.
    We had participated in the abnormal. And what was abnormal, to me, felt so very normal.
    Bret had handled me well. He had handled me as if he were a cognoscente, a connoisseur, and an expert in the art of pleasure. The man formerly employed by Uncle Sam had handled both of us so very well. I had watched Bret with the Vancouverite. Their lovemaking went to a new level of intensity. Strangers in a rented bed. He had her legs wide, an ankle in each hand as he stroked her. She pulled sheets and lost it. I lay on the bed with them and watched until I witnessed her screaming orgasm. She was loud, so loud that I had to clasp my hand over her mouth. For a while, as Bret stroked her, I held her neck, choked her. She loved that. The way he sexed her aroused me. The way she came and came and trembled and said things in her Canadian accent aroused me. Bret was on something. Jack Daniel’s. L-arginine. Saw palmetto. Tongkat ali. Yohimbe. Something damn good kept him filled with power. Soon I had let her go and I moved behind him, kissed his neck, sucked his ear, and gave him a new level of stimulation. Then he strained, stretched, took her with one of her legs over his shoulder. I sucked her toes and Bret made his skin beat hers and she screamed. He was lost inside of the Vancouverite. She came again. Bret kept stroking her and I moved and sat on her face, let my yoni muffle her lewd screams and cries, made us into the perfect triangle, kissed Bret as she ate and sucked on me. We were like that until she trembled and moaned and cried out that she couldn’t breathe. I moved away from her and her mouth