Bi Friends: Debauch Tableau

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Hello again,

This is another chapter in an ongoing reminiscence about our group approach to higher education. It is meant to be fun and, hopefully, a little spicy. If some of this reflects your experiences and tastes, feel free to e-mail or let this inspire you to tell your story here….



I suppose I should explain Margaret, as much as I understand her. Margaret was one of our group of five, and though we were all leaders, in turn, in conversation and cooking and suggestions and surprises, it was Margaret who was most often our hostess, physically, and she played the part with a natural ease that she was raised to.

Margaret was wealthy, as was Anarkali. Annie and I would fall into upper middle class, and Jo had a middle class upbringing, but I understood wealth, and Margaret was a wealthy girl. One of many things we all shared was an appreciation of fine things, some that real disposable income could make possible, but we were also fully appreciative of a kind word or a thoughtful deed, money not involved in the least.

None of us would tolerate any sort of arrogance or attitude that some with money liked to wield like a club. We were excited by a bargain, and would only tell the price of something if the telling revealed some remarkable find for a dollar. If Anarkali wanted to spring for tickets to Tortola or London, I would accept her spending her father’s bottomless expense account without guilt, and I would spring for food and cabs, etc. with my more modest wallet. We were NOT the types to buy Dom by the case, and saw that as a good example of flash gone wrong.

Margaret’s house was within a determined walking distance from the Bryn Mawr campus, but having risked the winding, sidewalk lacking speedway to get there, one walk was enough. The house was a huge, dark-stone-with-much-glass, 1950s Moderne home. Set back on wooded acreage, it’s size was deceptive illegal bahis from a distance. The back of the house was multi leveled, with a large, heated pool and cabana houses. The heart of the house was a room that had been designed around a famous British painting that her grandfather had bought at Christie’s 50 years earlier. A colossal, Near East Romantic Period nude with a Souave in the background, menacing anyone who would look upon her with his scimitar, the painting was impossible not to look at or be aware of when in the room, impossible not to anticipate when heading towards the room.

They called that room the parlor. We called it the Orientale room, said with a grin. The room was an odd, dark 50s reinterpretation of 1870s Near East Romanticism. The furnishings were 80s; gigantic, broad, square, cushy divans (with tassles added in a nod to their surroundings) around a huge, square coffee table. Though the heart of the house, this room was isolated enough to feel secure in.

Margaret was tall and slender, and dressed in a casual, scrumpled lineny way that often completely hid the fact that she was so striking when naked. Her hair was a mess, and she often wore it with two rolled scarves, one just above her scalp and another gathering the hair a little further on. The effect, to me, was like the Bride of Frankenstein, except dusty red and without the wavy white stripe. On formal occassions, she would spend hours turning it into cascades of very long, oiled coils (say that three times, drunk!) or staightening it into some remarkably scaled chignon, sort of society meets the B52s. Margaret had beautiful skin, freckled, which she had to maintain with various unguents, which we all were happy to rub in at any time.

Annie, Jo, Anarkali and I would meet at Margaret’s at least once every week. We’d cook a great meal, drink, and break off into comfy chairs to study. Sometimes that was all there was illegal bahis siteleri to an evening, and that was fine. But as often as not, after we all felt like we’d gotten enough done to maintain our self respect as hard working students, we would undress and put on one of Margaret’s collection of over the top vintage robes, and one by one we would all settle into the Orientale room for tales of adventures and misadventures, and, if our drinking carried us that way, the occasional grown up version of truth or dare. This was usually some challenge to some sort of public display of sex, usually between myself and Anarkali, or between Jo and Annie. Margaret remained a wild card in all this, which kept us all guessing.

It took us a few months to be this comfortable and out in the open about sex, but once we arrived at this point, it was if we owned a remarkable game which the rest of the world hadn’t figured out yet.

… but back to Margaret…

Margaret’s mother was a major force at the International House, one of her many noblesse oblige hobbies. I House was on the campus of Penn, where Jo and I went to school, and was the housing for students from around the world. Over the years, an endless stream of students had been invited over for dinner and, often, over night, and Margaret, from a shockingly early age, had had a great many of THEM for dinner. Her modus operandi was to dress in one of her many elaborate, vintage robes, naked underneath, and slowly, over the course of the evening, reveal more and more of herself to the visiting student, be it boy or girl. Their reaction or lack of it fueled her desire and drove her forward. As a result, she was constantly being invited to visit ‘friends’ around the world, carrying her debauch along on a global scale. It was comforting knowing that I wasn’t the only kid driven by a delicious wickedness growing up.

Margaret made sure we all had the best canlı bahis siteleri robes from her vast collection, and we revealed ourselves to each other, familiar though as we all were with each other, with much grinning and a renewed sence of comical naughtiness.


A week after Anarkali had sobbed about Annie and Margaret using ‘lesbian logic’ on her, I found myself at Margaret’s pool with Jo, high and happy, late. Everyone else had gone to sleep, and I slipped down to the pool only to have Jo follow as soon as I hit the water. As I climbed out to fix us drinks, Jo stood in front of me and we both faced the mirrored sliding door of the cabana. She was so short and I was so tall that it was quite funny, and she wanted to emphasise that by pulling my arms around her tiny nakedness as we looked at ourselves. We smiled and became quiet as she placed my hands on her tiny breasts.

I broke the spell by asking her why it was OK for a tiny lesbian to place my manly hands on her naked person, yet if I’d done that on my own… She looked up at me, smiling but with a funny glare, and asked, well, did I want to make passionate love with her or not? I’m not sure, I replied, but I know I sure as hell like hanging out with you naked. I didn’t want boffing me to be some sort of revenge for her girlfriend Annie, sleeping with my girlfriend, Anarkali. I sat her on the edge of the pool, feet in the water, at the shallow end, as I stood and we talked, lips to lips, but still talking, arms around each other. We talked about terms and perameters and friendship and how much we both loved each other and the other three as well. We kissed a circle of gentle talk about the big picture (of our lives at this moment, not the painting in the house) that making love was more than OK, it was good, but only if we laid the whole thing out to the group in the morning. Then we slipped into a beautiful, beautiful kiss, and my hard on grew and headed towards her luscious peach, parting the lips now wet with her hot butter. Our embrace grew tighter, more a gentle wrestling match, and I slipped inside. We were lovers and friends, friends and lovers…………….

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