Time for the Fruits of my Labor

Previous Chapter: GIGO

I’m at this bar, adjacent to a university in the heartland of America, relaxing after a job. “Dressed for success,” I’m showing off my hard earned body with carefully tailored clothes. I look around and try to decide which of the attractive women that draw my eye look like they may be receptive to a one-night-stand. I’m still mostly looking at curvy brunettes. The ones that appeal to me are either in apparent relationships or some other guy is already chatting them up. As I look around, I notice two women who seem to be talking about me. One is Asian Indian, while the other looks Chinese. Both are brunettes, of course, but skinny with short hair. The Indian one’s hair is a bit longer, perhaps touching her shoulders. They’re giggling, leaning their heads together and talking quietly, but glancing at me. I wonder if I have something on my face and am starting to get self-conscious, thinking a trip to the restroom is necessary to check. Just about the time I make the decision I need to see if I look like a clown, they stand up and walk toward me.

“Hey sailor, can a girl buy you a drink?” the Indian one asks, the Chinese one looking expectantly. That’s new. I’ve been come on by women before but this is an interesting opening line: turn the sexist thing on its head. While they were sitting at the table, I eyed them up and down. Both are attractive enough, though not conventional beauties either here or back in their home countries (though this might _be_ their home country, no sign of an accent from the Indian). They’re almost certainly college girls, maybe juniors, and as such are in the full bloom of womanhood. Were they fifty and looked as they do, they would be thought beauties. However, with the competition of all these other young twenty-somethings, they’re rather plain. Always happy to let a woman do the work on a pickup, I decide to see how far they want to take this.

“Sure, pretty ladies, no sailor could ever refuse such an amazing offer!” The Chinese one motions to the bartender for another round. He brings me another five-dollar club soda along with the girl’s drinks. I notice that their drinks are mostly flavor, very little alcohol. That’s an optimistic sign, drunks are lousy lovers and even tipsy women are generally a drag. Occasionally, though, the drinks will reduce their inhibitions enough for some interesting experimentation.

The Indian woman says, “This is my friend Huifen and I am Chandani.” Though pronounced how the typical American would say their names, I practice a couple of times doing my best to use the emphasis and tonality I recall from long-ago experiences in the relevant parts of the world.

Huifen exclaimed, “That’s amazing! Where did you learn to speak like that? Only relatives ever seem to get it right.” She also lacks an accent, so I guess both are already “home.”

Chandani adds, “I have the same problem and gave up correcting people; are you a language major?”

I give them the name I’ve selected for the evening and lay on some palaver about having studied language abroad. They’ve moved quite close to me, one on either side. Perhaps they want to stake out their territory and keep other suitors from challenging, though the bar is starting to fill up. Our conversations drift around. Sometimes it’s on topical elements, sometimes broaching intimate topics (for instance: which was better: the full Brazilian or the landing strip). I’m pleased they’re not chugging their drinks and neither appear to be even slightly tipsy. It seems clear it’s up to me how the evening ends. This could be fun!

They ask about dancing. I say sure, so we leave this bar and walk down the street to one with a dance floor. It’s loud. I doubt I’ll want to endanger my hearing by staying here long. Still, I enjoy watching women dance, so am looking forward to seeing how my dates express themselves. The dance floor is already well populated, so we need to stand very close together. I certainly don’t mind and I suspect it’s part of their plan. I decide to be passive and let them work their strategy; maybe I’ll learn something interesting. They’re both energetic and seem to have practiced suggestive dancing. I’m finding their gyrations increasingly absorbing my focus. Eventually I get to the point I’m not even glancing around at the “competition.” This goes on for about an hour and my ears are starting to hurt, so when we take a break I suggest, yell, actually, that we should find someplace quiet where we can talk.

We head back out to the street. Though noisy, it’s nothing compared to on the dance floor and the contrast leaves my ears ringing. They sidle up to me, one on either side, and each coyly reaches an arm around my waist. I put an arm around their shoulders and we walk down the street. We make slow progress. The sidewalk is crowded and, since we’re three abreast, we really disturb the flow.

Huifen leans forward to look over to Chandani, “What do you think, are we ready?”

Chandani looks back and nods enthusiastically. Huifen looks up at me (they’re both several inches shorter than I am) and suggests, “Handsome sailor, escort a couple of vulnerable young ladies back to their apartment? They need protection from all these bad men!”

I smile and respond, “I’ll do my chivalrous best to ensure the ladies will have a safe and pleasurable evening!”

They giggle at that and lead me toward their apartment.

It's not much to get excited about. A middle of the road college apartment. Larger than tiny, but just barely enough to have two bedrooms, each holding a twin-sized bed and desk. The apartment has one bathroom with three doors. One in the living room and one into each bedroom. Clearly this apartment was designed for women. As I use the bathroom to freshen up, I see it has two large sinks with plenty of room for all the odds and ends that women seem to need. After I return, Huifen says it’s her turn to freshen up. Chandani asks if I’d like to have a beer. Though I don’t care for the stuff, I figure it’s the path of least resistance, so accept her offer.

Chandani and I chat. She asks me my opinion of their place and I give neutral responses. After about ten minutes, Huifen comes back out. She certainly looks fresh now! She has a top that ties via a string at her neck and another at her back and comes to just below her breasts. Clearly not wearing any bra (how could she and not show it?), her nipples are prominently on display, poking at the thin fabric. Her midriff is clearly visible. She has a small belly, but such is so common nowadays that it doesn’t distract the eye. I’ve never objected to a small belly anyway. I think it can be sexy if the owner isn’t ashamed of it. She’s wearing a short skirt that flares out. The colors artfully show off her white skin. While I prefer tan women, Chandani, for instance, is very attractively, and no doubt naturally, tanned, I have no objections and I imagine the contrast of the two will be interesting.

As Huifen comes out, Chandani walks toward her. She’s critically looking Huifen up and down, then says something to the effect that there is lint on her shirt and reaches out to caress her top. The caress is quite interesting and Huifen reacts sexily. Chandani takes her turn in the bathroom; I’m looking forward to her transformation. Huifen joins me in the small kitchen and gets herself a beer. She manages to bend over quite low, revealing she's sans sous-vêtements. A very nice view; this is promising to be a memorable evening.

Since she’s pausing for an unnecessarily long time, I assume she’s waiting for me to show a response. I walk up to “assist” her in finding a beer and run my fingers lightly up the back of her thigh. She responds by pushing against my waist. As I’m now rising to attention, I press back. She gets the beer and, standing up, turns around and closes the door. She reaches to my crotch and starts to feel out my “package.” I lean forward to give her a kiss. She responds with alacrity, so I put down my prop of a beer and reach around to give her a hug. Her back is pleasant. Though lacking the magnitude of wonderful curves of Isabel, she does have some, and I enjoy running my hands over them. Huifen rubs her chest on mine, a most enjoyable sensation.

After Huifen and I have groped and kissed one another for a while, Chandani comes out of the bathroom. She’s wearing a very thin sari, tightly wrapped around her. It shows off her belly, as well as her other assets, to great effect. Neither are particularly well endowed, but I’m fine with small breasted women. It takes longer for gravity to wreck its evil spell on them. Chandani walks over to join us and casually reaches up Huifen’s skirt and rubs. Huifen closes her eyes with a dreamy smile and essays a small moan. I’m now quite uncomfortable with the stress I’m in; I need to be straightened out for some relief. I reach down to adjust myself and Chandani comments: “Look what you’ve done to our poor sailor, Huifen: he’s all tied up in knots!”

Huifen opens her eyes and looks down as Chandani reaches out to unbutton and unzip my pants. As she works on that, I reach behind to run my fingers up and down her back and caress her small rear. She presses back against my hand, so I slip my fingers between the sari and her skin and give her bare rear some gentle squeezes. This seems to distract Chandani, or Huifen is impatient. Either way, Huifen takes over removing my pants.

She gets on her knees to have better leverage so is perfectly positioned when I’m finally released from the pressure of my slacks. She seems happy with the result. Chandani is looking at the job Huifen is doing and absently reaches between her legs to rub. I reach down between her legs from behind. She widens her stance so I have an easier time. I don’t feel any hair, so perhaps the questions regarding the Brazilian weren’t just to make conversation.

I suggest we move to the couch. When we reach it, they push me back to lie down, taking off the rest of my clothes and running their hands all over my body. I peek up Huifen’s skirt. She has the full Brazilian. I’m guessing that Chandani has the landing strip. When she lies back on the couch to watch, she pulls the sari up and I get confirmation.

After an intense threesome, where I’m able to bring them to orgasm at the same time as they enjoy each other, we relax in the post-coital glow. I remark on the pleasure it’s been enjoying the evening with them. I’m curious about their take on the events. Huifen is feeling chatty.

“We’ve had poor luck with men the last year. We turned to each other to get some relief, but I guess we aren’t really lesbians; we prefer men. A couple of weeks ago we came up with this idea of double teaming and seeing if that would help. So many guys talk a good story about wanting two women, but we found it was as hard to get follow through as before. Though we did get plenty of attention from our antics at the bar.”

Chandani continues, “Last weekend, after striking out yet again, we decided we would take the lead and see if that would get us to get to the finish line. We saw you and you looked so handsome in your tailored clothes, showing off your hard body, we decided we would try our strategy on you first. You didn’t disappoint; you were just the thing we wanted.”

After I leave their apartment, I start to have strange misgivings. Almost as if I feel dirty. This is a bizarre feeling. I can’t recall ever having had it before. I had a great time. It’s clear they had a great time. Though rare, this isn’t my first time with two girls. Why am I feeling this way? As I walk along the dark, quiet streets, thankfully past the hour where all the bars/dance clubs have closed, I’m lost in confused thoughts. I’m trying to put my mental finger on why this time is different. I could probably count them all if I made the effort, but it has certainly been well over a hundred times, probably twice that, and I never once felt any sort of regret. The feeling doesn’t appear to be associated with the girls. It seems directed at myself. It’s really robbing me of the joy I felt while I was there.

Mentally I shrug, relegating the analysis to my next transoceanic flight. I head back home hoping that work will cleanse me of this dirty feeling.