The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

The Epicures

Marilyn Jaye Lewis

It was called Petrograd in honour of the opulence of czarist Russia. Its interior brimmed with ostentation and the owners didn’t care; attracting the proletariat was not their aim. The average working stiff could hardly afford the cocktails at Petrograd, let alone anything from its tasting menu. We, however, always ordered from the tasting menu, blind, with our wine flights selected especially for us by Sergei — who was not really Russian, or if he was, it was from so many generations ago as to make any Tartar roots in him undetectable beneath his Brooklyn accent.

In those days, we savoured every moment of our affluence because we recalled too keenly how it had felt to be among the starving class. Our riches were so new to us in fact that poverty, it seemed, still lay in wait for us up the block, wondering when we might return. We weren’t sure. All we knew was that good fortune had alighted on us at last and we planned to wring the most from it — starting with haute cuisine and vintage wines — before good fortune evaporated into the ether and left us poor again.

Every booming market goes bust eventually, and to survive it you have to prepare for the inevitable in advance. Our safety net was our loft apartment in Tribeca; we’d paid cash for it in early 1982. It belonged to us. We were determined not to be homeless again and we turned that cavernous, once-industrial space into a lush cocoon. That was where our hedonism went unleashed for many years, right there in the bosom of our sanctuary.

Paulina moved in with us in March of that particular year (was it ’84, ’85?). We’d met her at Petrograd in early December, when everyone in New York was already tipping extravagantly and bursting with Christmas cheer. She was a coat check girl there, an immigrant. Illegal, for all we knew, but it wasn’t important to us. We liked her enormously. She was saucy with a dry sense of the absurd. Yet when we welcomed her into our home that first frosty evening, we discovered quickly that all her worldly urbanity fell away from her when she was kissed — along her collarbone, say, or on her lips, her neck, across her pale shoulders; she melted under the tenderness.

Paulina’s legs were long and parted so easily, but she was not tall. She gave the impression of being tall, however, because she wore those very high Italian heels that made her legs look even longer.

Her breasts were full, her waist was narrow and her hips wide, and although she was curvy, she was also slender. When not in her coat check uniform, she dressed in the height of fashion. She was fastidious about her appearance. And truth be told, so were we. I guess you could have called us vain and not been far off the mark. Still, at least we could kid ourselves about it. Perhaps it was that unexpected dash of humility that kept us from being too insufferable. Whatever it was, we were always greeted by the staff at Petrograd with welcoming smiles. We were made to feel at home there.

Bertrand, my fiance, was what one used to call “a salty dog” — an experienced man with a rather wanton libido. Far from satiating his appetites, however, good food and good wine only made his carnal cravings more pronounced. He didn’t have to say a word. When an item from the blind tasting menu was brought to our table and laid before him, I could tell by the merry gleam in his eye of which delicate or yielding, straining or supple quality of a woman’s body he was most reminded. Five years we had been together, and in that brief time, I had come to learn his lascivious thoughts well. I knew he could say the same about me.

As luck would have it, we were both fond of women as sexual playmates; of servicing them, of testing their limits, their capacities, delighting in their raptures. Bertrand’s easy glide between the sights, smells and tastes of food, and the idea of devouring women (metaphorically, of course), was not lost on me. His appetites filled my eager mind with irresistible pictures — a fleshy rear end, a succulent thigh; a hole stretched to accommodate my lover’s unflagging lust. I often drank my wine a little too freely at Petrograd; the atmosphere there crackled with barely concealed promiscuity. The wine going to my head, the heady mix of Bertrand’s pronounced tastes and the spectre of the dinner crowd’s insatiability — set off so flatteringly by candlelight; all of it served to glut that river of longing in me until the waters threatened to overflow all over the seat of my chair.

Paulina would flirt shamelessly with us when we left the restaurant in our inebriated state. I believe I was the one who slid to her our address, scribbled on the inside of a Petrograd matchbook cover. “Do they ever give you a night off around here?” I said.

She half smiled and replied, “Sure. We’re closed on Sundays.”

“Ah,” Bertrand chimed in, content in the afterglow of a Petite Sirah Port. “The Lord’s day. What could be more fortuitous?”

Paulina and I regarded each other quizzically, neither of us entirely sure what Bertrand meant. Still I said, “Well, by all means, join us some Sunday evening. Come for dinner. We’re excellent cooks.”

“We’re modest, too.” Bertrand helped me into my winter coat.

Paulina laughed politely. “No reason to be modest, you know. No one would fault you for crowing a bit. Most of your attributes are readily discernible.”

Bertrand slipped her a handsome tip. “You shovel it all so seamlessly,” he said sweetly.

She winked at him and stuffed the tip in her pocket.

It had been two weeks since we’d last been to Petrograd, so Paulina was not uppermost in our minds when our downstairs buzzer bleated loudly early one Sunday evening just prior to Christmas. The noise startled us from our mindless gazing at the oversized television screen.

Bertrand stretched and said, “Who could that be?”

“Shall we buzz it up and see?”

He said, “Why not?”

We got up from the comfy couch and then buzzed up our visitor.

We couldn’t have been more pleased when we saw Paulina — dressed in her Sunday best — step off the old freight elevator out in the hallway.

“It’s Paulina,” I said happily.

“So it is. Well, come in, Paulina. Make yourself at home.”

She came inside. “You neglected to give me your phone number, so I took it as a sign.”

“Of what?” I asked curiously, helping her out of her lovely coat in our entryway.

“That I was welcome anytime. That calling ahead would have only been a formality.”

Bertrand and I smiled at each other. He said to her, “How right you were, love. You know, you have quite a good grasp on the English language.”

“I know,” she said pertly. “Now, what are we drinking? Are we going to get festive with it being so close to Christmas?”

“Around here,” Bertrand said, “we even get festive on Arbor Day. Why don’t you ladies relax in there by the fire and I’ll whip up something wonderful in the kitchen.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“I’ll think of something. Maybe something frothy or steamy, or creamy — I don’t know. I only know that it will be brimming with possibilities and there will be plenty to go around.”

“And then what about dinner?” I wanted to know. “Should we plan on ordering up?”

“No,” he said. “Let’s cook, the three of us, together. Can you cook, Paulina?”

“Not really,” she said. “But I can follow directions; I’m easily taught. You know, I grasp things well.”

“I’m sure you do,” Bertrand said, eyeing her perfectly manicured fingers. But beneath her high-toned appearance, she was just a little tart, Paulina was, and Bertrand and I enjoyed it thoroughly — the aural bait she was dangling. “We’ll definitely work those pretty fingers of yours to the bone,” he went on. “We’re excellent teachers. I’m sure the three of us will concoct something memorable.”

I took Paulina by the hand and led her into the living area. Our loft had not come with an actual fireplace; we’d had a quasi-one designed for us, though. It was elevated on a brick platform, with a bronze vent above it and encased in bevelled glass. There were logs on a grate and amber flames; it looked impressive. But it was more an elaborate Sterno pit than a source of any real heat.

“How cosy,” Paulina purred. “And for such an enormous room. Not an effect that’s easy to achieve.”

“We had time on our hands,” I assured her.

“And money, I’m guessing.”

“That, too. Shall we sit?” Without a moment’s hesitation, even in her expensive skirt and sweater, Paulina stretched out on the rug by the fire. I sat down beside her. “Where are you from?” I asked her.

“Oh, far away,” she replied vaguely. “Lots of ice and snow, you know, that sort of place.”

“And what did you do there?”

“A little of what you do here, I should think.”

“Here, as in America? Or here, as in our apartment?”

She looked up at me. “Your apartment,” she said coyly.

I leaned over and kissed her, just a quick kiss, on the side of her face. Her skin was soft. She smelled pretty. “Fascinating,” I said.

“What is?”

“You, your secret world.”

She shrugged. “And you don’t have any secrets?”

“None,” I said quietly. “There’s been nothing that’s been that important.”

“What about him?”

“Bertrand?”

“Yes.”

“An open book — ask him anything, you get an answer. Not always the answer you’re hoping for, but an answer, an honest one.”

“And he likes to cook?”

“We both do. We love food — the pleasure of it. There was a time when we didn’t have much.”

“Pleasure or food?” she asked.

“Food,” I said decisively. “Between us, there has been no lack of pleasure.”

“And yet you’re both so thin. The hedonists I knew in my country were always on the fleshy side, and, sadly, always in such a hurry to get undressed and show it off.”

Hedonists? The word made me laugh. “Your vocabulary is certainly impressive, Paulina.”

One of her perfectly manicured hands reached up and lightly stroked my cheek. “And you’re pretty, too,” she said. “They aren’t always as pretty as you.”

Bertrand came into the room carrying a pitcher and some glasses. “We’ve a rum punch for starters,” he announced. “Is that festive enough?”

“Rum punch!” I enthused. “It goes perfect with Christmas fudge. I’ll go get a tray from the kitchen and bring some in.”

In the mere moments it took me to arrange the fudge on a glass tray and bring it into the living area, Bertrand had managed to remove Paulina’s pretty Italian shoes and was gently massaging her feet through her stockings down there on the floor by the fire. Her stockings were black with a pretty, all-over lacy pattern.

“Wolford,” I said, sitting down next to them with the tray of fudge in hand. I set it down on the floor.

Paulina said dreamily, “Pardon me?”

“Your stockings — I recognize the pattern — Wolford hosiery. I saw those at Bergdorf’s.” Bertrand had filled our glasses with the rum punch and they were lined up in a neat little row on the elevated hearth in front of us. I leaned over Paulina and reached for a glass. I added, “Being a coat check girl must pay very handsomely to afford Wolford.”

She said slyly, “You’d be surprised.”

“Nothing surprises us any more, does it, dear?”

Bertrand, content for the moment to be rubbing Paulina’s feet and driving her quietly into ecstasy, said, “No. Nothing does. Not any more.”

Moaning softly, Paulina barely left her reverie when she mused, “I would have liked to have known you both then.”

“When’s that?” I said. I was the only one among us who was not immediately heading into some type of swoon. I helped myself to a piece of fudge.

“Back when things surprised you,” she said.

Bertrand smiled at the remark. He parted Paulina’s legs and stared at whatever it was he could see up under her skirt.

“I was right, you know,” I said, though no one seemed to be noticing me. “About the fudge, I mean. It goes great with the rum punch, if anyone’s interested: sugar on top of sugar, you know. They complement each other. Of course, a little goes a long way.”

Bertrand leaned over and grabbed Paulina by her hips and slid her down the rug closer to him, her skirt sliding up around her waist as he did so, revealing that her expensive stockings were the stay-put kind. She was not wearing garters. But she was wearing a tiny pair of silk panties, ruby red with a black lace pattern overlay. They looked stunning against her bone-white skin. A half-moon-shaped scar on her pelvis peeked out at the top of her panties. I ran my finger lightly along the scar.

“I had a baby once,” Paulina said. “They took it out of me there.” The scar did not look new. She said, “Are you surprised?”

I looked at Bertrand and said, “A little — how about you?”

“Actually, yes,” he agreed, sitting now with Paulina’s legs spread before him and practically wrapped around him. She had draped her legs over each of his arms. “I am a little surprised by that news. You’re so young.”

“I was even younger then. I wanted to give birth the real way, but the doctor wouldn’t let me. Things became complicated. He was afraid I was going to die. But I was looking forward to childbirth; now, I won’t have any more babies.”

We didn’t ask about the fate of the one baby she’d had. If she were a mother, it would come out in good time. If she wasn’t, well. . her private world wasn’t really our business yet; we barely knew her.

Bertrand slipped a roving finger inside the crotch of Paulina’s silk panties and gently stroked the hidden lips. “Will you be with any of your family at Christmas?” he asked her.

“No. I’m alone in America.”

“Do you miss your family?”

“Not much,” she said. She pulled aside the crotch of her panties to give Bertrand better access to her lips.

“Wow,” he said quietly. “You’re beautiful.”

She looked at me. “Does he say that about every girl?”

“No,” I assured her.

“Have there been many?”

“A few,” I said. Bertrand pushed a finger into Paulina’s vagina. Her eyes gleamed when he did it. She looked intoxicated — in that amorous way. I added, “But none of the others were as pretty as you are.”

She moaned contentedly and rocked on Bertrand’s probing finger. She was a girl who liked being told she was pretty, even though there was likely no doubt about it in her own mind. I leaned down and kissed her on her mouth.

“You taste like sugar,” she said.

I smiled at her. I broke off a tiny corner of the fudge and fed it to her. She didn’t so much eat it as let it melt in her mouth. Then her eyes sparked. “That is good. Did you make it yourself?”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I made it this morning.”

Bertrand, having lost Paulina’s undivided attention for now, reached for his cocktail and scooted closer to us. He helped himself to a piece of fudge. He said, “What would we like for dinner tonight?”

I was too busy feeding Paulina, and kissing her neck, kissing her across her collarbone, to answer him right away. I was on all fours, leaning down to her. Bertrand rested a hand on my rear end then let his hand roam all over my tight slacks. He said quietly, “I’m thinking ratatouille; something with something else, and then ratatouille on the side.”

“But that’s a summer dish,” I said distractedly. “And it takes hours.”

“We’ve got hours. . haven’t we? Paulina, do you have to be anywhere?”

By this time, Paulina and I were kissing, our lips pressed together, our tongues meeting. She moaned something guttural that sounded like “no”. Her reply reverberated in my mouth. The thought of having hours with her further excited me. I felt my way down between her legs while we kissed. Her legs were still parted, the lips down there still exposed — and they were slick. She was already aroused. I stopped kissing her and said softly, “Do you want to play with us in our kitchen?” Two of my fingers pushed into her hole and felt the tight, slippery walls push open to accept me. I wanted to pull her panties down, get them all the way off and out of my way. But she planted her feet on the rug and pushed her hole down hard on my fingers; she wanted to stay connected. She took my fingers past the knuckles; her canal was deep and it gave me so many ideas. “Yes,” she finally said, a little breathlessly. “Let’s play in your kitchen — whatever that entails.”

We’re fond of the baby eggplant, Bertrand and I: its perfect shape, its deep purple colour; the substantial heft it has when one holds it in the palm of one’s hand. In the vegetable world, they are small works of art. Baby eggplants are always in our kitchen, along with every colour of bell pepper, and yellow squash, zucchini, onions, tomatoes, potatoes, garlic. We never run out of carrots, or celery, or cucumbers. In the spring and summer, there is no shortage of asparagus, green beans, or broccoli in our kitchen, or fresh fennel bulbs, chard, or leeks. And fresh herbs — we love herbs, and sea salt, both fine and coarse. We love peppercorns of every colour and, of course, olive oil.

Bertrand dons his chef ’s apron. It is pure cotton and bleached white. We are on to the wine now, a Font-Mars, for starters; it is deep red. The colour of it excites me when Bertrand pours it into our glasses. But it is not a wine to be hurried; in an hour or two, it will taste even more intoxicating than it would now. Since we have all evening, I concentrate instead on seducing Paulina out of her clothes, right there in our kitchen.

“In front of all these windows?” She is disinclined to do it — at first; until she sees that we do have window shades. Enormous ones: the windows are tall and wide and comprise one entire kitchen wall. Bertrand, with his glass of Font-Mars in hand, tugs the cord that brings the shades gliding down. We are now completely alone in a city of so many millions.

Bertrand is over his initial idea of preparing ratatouille. I have no idea, yet, what he has decided upon instead, but as Paulina steps out of her skirt and pulls her sweater off over her head, Bertrand prepares to concoct a simple amuse-bouche to have with our wine.

Paulina’s bra matches her panties; it is the same ruby red silk with a black lace overlay. It pushes her ample breasts together, offers them up enticingly. She is stunning. Her dark hair frames her face angelically. Her dark eyes are quite large and expertly made up to appear as if she were wearing no make-up at all. I reach behind her to unclasp her bra, but I wait for the unveiling of her tits. I let her do that part by herself. I reach for my wine and I glance at Bertrand. I know how much he loves to see a woman’s tits spill out of a lacy bra. He’s eyeing Paulina with rapt attention, but I notice also that he’s eating Brie! And he hasn’t offered us any. What happened to our amuse-bouche? I catch his eye and he shrugs, smiling sheepishly. He takes a sip of wine and then his attention goes back to his chopping block. He’s chopping away at herbs. For now, I am more interested in Paulina’s breasts — which are luscious, perfectly formed — than in chiding Bertrand over his hoarding the Brie. After all, there will always be Brie, but how often does a gorgeous foreigner strip out of her expensive underthings in one’s kitchen?

Paulina is now clad in just her panties and those expensive stockings from Bergdorf’s. She scoots up on to one of the kitchen counters. Since she is not tall, this height is perfect for having her lovely tits almost even with my face. Her legs part as she reaches for my hair, pulling me gently to her, encouraging me to latch on to one of her nipples. They are the plump kind, meant for suckling, or for tugging on. My mouth sucks one of her nipples in eagerly and I am surprised by how intensely she moans, by how her hips writhe on the countertop, by how insistently she pulls me closer to her, pressing my head flush against her breast. I wrap my arms around her then, I hold her and let the full power of those erotic sounds she is making wash over me while I suck on her tit. It is a primal feeling, and it happened so quickly. I am very aroused myself. I can feel her nipple swell against my tongue from the pressure of my mouth and, as the nipple swells, her moans become urgent whimpers. It fascinates me; how sensitive she is. It’s as if I ’d never sucked a nipple before. Certainly never one that was this responsive. The act of suckling her and listening to her ecstasy becomes my entire world; I am lost in it. My pussy is soaking inside my slacks. Soon Paulina is writhing against the counter so much that I am beginning to wonder if she is going to come. I let her set the pace of it; when she wants me to stop, we’ll stop. If she wants me to keep at it until she comes, I will do my best to keep up with her rhythm. I’ve yet to make a woman come without touching her clit, though. It would be a challenge; still, it was one I was willing to take.

It’s not long, however, before I realize that Bertrand is standing right next to us. He nudges me over so that he can have one of her tits, too. I release my hold on Paulina; I make room for Bertrand. Paulina leans back a little, enough to give us room. We each suck on a nipple and it is almost more pleasure than she can stand — judging strictly by the whimpering that issues from her then.

I am trying to keep up the pressure on Paulina’s nipple, thinking that this is going to make her come; that this is the object of our foreplay. But Bertrand is overcome with lust. Pushing me aside completely, he picks Paulina up in his arms and moves her over to our kitchen island, shoving aside the many canisters of utensils and baskets of vegetables and fruits to make room for her to lie down. He tugs her panties off her, pushes her legs open wide and plants his mouth right on her pussy. Bertrand is usually the type of man who is the first to have his cock out of his trousers, sticking it wherever a woman is willing to take it. But with Paulina, his mouth did not seem able get enough of her.

I watched the two of them, locked in their lusty syncopation. It aroused me to see them like that. Paulina, naked except for her black stockings, writhing, tugging on her own nipples, lost in a swoon, her knees hiked high while Bertrand had his face buried between her legs, his sizeable hands pushing down on her slender thighs, holding her open.

Just then, Paulina’s eyes opened; she focused on me. She looked drunk with lust. Almost inaudibly, she pleaded, “Find something to stuff up me.”

It was jarring. I looked at her, momentarily confused. “What do you want?” I asked her. “Do you want Bertrand to fuck you now?”

“No,” she said, trying to catch her breath but still pulling like mad on her nipples. “Stick something up me. Something big, that I can really feel, you know?”

I thought I knew. I looked around at our countertops; there was food everywhere. I wondered: what would I want to fuck if I were in Paulina’s position, out of my mind with lust and needing to really feel something?

I grabbed a zucchini. It was thick and long. I held it up to her. “This?” I said.

She shook her head no. “Something bigger than that.”

“Bigger than this?” I said. I wasn’t at all sure I could handle the zucchini up my own hole, yet she wanted something bigger. “What? Are you into fisting or something?”

“No,” she insisted, losing patience with me, sounding as if she was nearing a climax. “Something wider — to stretch me open, you know? Fill me up.”

I felt a bit frantic, as if I had to find this pleasure tool to stretch Paulina open before Bertrand managed to make her come in his mouth. I picked up a yellow squash. It was wide at the bottom but had a slender neck, like a handle. Maybe that would work, I thought. I showed it to her. Her eyes gleamed again. “Yes,” she said. “Try that.”

“Do you want Bertrand to put it in you?”

“No,” she said. “I want you to do it.”

I was thrilled. It was my turn to nudge Bertrand aside. He’d been nearly oblivious to us, though. At some point while he’d been feasting on Paulina’s pussy, he’d taken his cock out of his trousers and had begun jerking himself off under the white chef’s apron that he was still wearing. “Move,” I told him gleefully. “This is my spot now.” I showed him the yellow squash.

“Oh yes,” he said quietly, the reason for the squash dawning on him. He moved aside. In fact, he went and got his glass of wine and then came back and pulled up a kitchen chair.

At last, I was getting a good look between Paulina’s legs. Her pussy was indeed as gorgeous as the rest of her. I understood, now, Bertrand’s uncharacteristic oral need. The outer lips were only lightly covered with black hair; the inner lips were glistening wet, and deep red now and fully engorged. It was a pussy that was without doubt ready for fucking. Bertrand had done his job well.

But her hole looked really small. I looked at the yellow squash; surely she wouldn’t want the neck going in her first? “Are you sure you want this?” I said.

She was propped up on her elbows, watching us. Her feet planted on our countertop, spread wide apart, bracing her. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“OK.”

Bertrand took a sip of his Font-Mars and savoured it in his mouth. For some reason, I was very aware that he wasn’t swallowing.

I pushed the wide, bulblike end against the opening of Paulina’s vagina. She was very wet, so lubrication was not the issue. The squash simply seemed too big compared to the size of her hole.

“Push,” she said. “Come on.”

I pushed, steadily. And she pushed against me.

“Ah,” she cried out. “Keep pushing. Don’t stop.”

I kept pushing; I didn’t stop. She bore down on it and, sure enough, her hole started to open. She began to pant lightly. I looked at Bertrand and said, “This thing is huge.”

He still hadn’t swallowed his wine. He only nodded his head in agreement. From the look on his face, he seemed to be in heaven.

“Ah,” Paulina cried again. But she was taking it. Her hole had opened but it was a snug fit. Then all at once it had been sucked right up her. Even the neck of the squash had gone up.

“Now what?” I cried. “I lost it.”

Bertrand swallowed finally and looked startled.

Paulina was a step ahead of us, though. She grunted determinedly, bearing down. “Grab it,” she said haltingly. “Get it before it pops out.”

Bertrand and I watched as the hole pushed open. Her pussy looked incredible. Straining, spreading, then the neck of the squash began to emerge. “Grab it,” she said again. “Don’t let it pop out. I want to get fucked with it.”

I managed to grab the squash by its neck but it was slippery now. I had to dig my nails into it to keep it from sliding back up her. I fucked her with it slow at first, amazed that her pussy was so resilient. Easing it down her canal until the widest part of the squash was wedging her hole completely open, I then held it there, stuck in her. Its bright yellow colour looked even brighter squeezed on all sides, as it was, by the deeply engorged lips. When I did that, she cried out; she sputtered a bunch of “Oh gods” and “Oh, yes. Fuck.” And Bertrand groaned appealingly into his glass of wine.

Then I pushed the squash deep into her, as deep as I could get it while still holding on to it. I fucked her with it fast and hard, until her cries sounded more like she might hyperventilate. But I only stopped the fucking motion to ease the widest part down the canal again to thoroughly open her hole. Paulina groaned low: “Oh. Yes — God.” And she held it there, its widest part stretching her open; her knees raised and completely spread. Nothing obstructed our view. Bertrand said softly, “I can’t believe this. This is incredible, isn’t it? Christ, dinner will never be ready at this rate. .” While Paulina panted and grunted and sounded like she was giving birth.

And then I realized what this was all about for Paulina: she’d wanted to experience giving birth but they’d forced her to have a Caesarean delivery. I had an idea. I eased the squash out of her completely. “Hey!” Bertrand said, and Paulina looked at me in shock, her hole gaping open, empty.

“Wait,” I said. “Don’t panic. I have an idea. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

I came back with a baby eggplant. “Want to try this?” I said, holding it out to her.

Bertrand looked at Paulina and me wide-eyed, clearly hoping that she was going to consent. She did, without even batting an eye.

The stem end would have to go up first this time. There wouldn’t be any fucking; she was simply going to give birth to the thing. She braced herself. The stem end easily opened her right up, but the bottom of the eggplant was significantly wider than the squash had been. She took a few breaths — she was really concentrating. Bertrand had done away with sipping his wine and was now swallowing it in mouthfuls. “It’s not going to go,” he said. “That thing’s too big.”

Paulina breathed sharply and said, “No — I’ll do it. I will. Ah!” She pushed hard. But then she squirted us, accidentally. A quick stream of piss flew out of her. “Sorry!” she said urgently. Her voice sounded high-pitched now and overwrought. “I’m sorry! ”

“Don’t worry about it,” Bertrand assured her. “In fact, do it again if you have to.”

His insatiable lust amused me, but still, I was on a mission. This was about giving birth to an eggplant; it wasn’t about his fondness for water sports. “Make yourself useful,” I told him. “Go pour yourself some more wine.”

“But I don’t want to miss anything,” he protested.

“We’re right here. We aren’t going anywhere. This is going to take a minute.”

But it didn’t take a minute. Suddenly, she’d opened up and the rest of the eggplant went in, and then the hole closed immediately around it once it was securely up the canal.

“Holy Christ,” Bertrand said.

“Wow,” Paulina said, breathing heavily. “Wow.” Then she added, “I’d like a little wine.”

Bertrand did the honours and brought us our glasses of wine. He topped us off with more Font-Mars and then we clinked our glasses in a toast. “To the baby eggplant,” I said. “Cheers, Paulina.”

She took a few sips of wine and then set her glass aside. She stripped off her stockings then scooted her bottom to the very edge of our kitchen island. She planted her heels wide apart and propped herself up in a half-sitting position. She bore down hard, until her anus was pushing open. She pushed and then pushed harder still. She grunted and groaned. She held her breath at times; then let her breath go and panted hard. She spit on her fingertips and began rubbing her clit. But it wasn’t coming. She let her clit alone and pushed some more.

I privately worried that the thing was stuck in there and would never come out; then what would we do? Take her to Beth Israel? It was the closest hospital. .

“Oh shit,” she finally squealed. “Yes.”

And we saw it, big and purple and round, crowning in her hole.

“Oh God,” she groaned deeply, her whole body relaxing. But then it disappeared again. It still wasn’t coming — it had slipped back up the canal. For a moment, Paulina did nothing. She was pacing herself, it seemed; she caught her breath. Then she bore down again and there it was, pushing her vagina open, really coming out now. She cried out and the pitch of her cry made my heart race. And then, for a few moments, she didn’t move and the eggplant sat there, right in her hole, opening her impossibly wide. I realized then that I was holding my breath, my mouth was filled with wine; I couldn’t swallow. I looked quickly at Bertrand and understood him a little better then. His eyes were glued to the sight of Paulina’s stretched vagina; he wasn’t swallowing either but his right hand was back underneath his apron.

Paulina gave a final grunt, a final push and, to our relief and delight, the eggplant popped out and headed straight for the kitchen floor.

The bottle of Font-Mars was long gone; we’d moved on to a Cavalchina Bardolino. Bertrand had settled on grilled brined salmon fillets for dinner with a fresh dill and fennel relish, roasted stuffed onions, green beans and chive and parsley mashed potatoes. Our amuse-bouches had turned out to be delightful: mesclun and ricotta salata on grilled garlic toasts. The wine suited it all to perfection. We ate leisurely, sitting in the overstuffed chairs by the fire, our plates spread out on the large coffee table before us.

Rather than putting her clothes back on, Paulina passed the remainder of the evening in one of Bertrand’s white, button-down shirts. Of course it was much too big for her and she looked adorable in it. The shirt held the added advantage of falling to the floor in a heartbeat, as well. It wasn’t long after our meal that we were feeling amorous for one another again. We were more subdued after two bottles of wine and a good meal (light as it was) than we’d been earlier in the kitchen, but we still had a grand time.

Understandably, Paulina was too worn out for traditional intercourse, so she and I concentrated mostly on using our mouths on each other. Until Bertrand wanted to have her the back way and she was game. It aroused me no end — watching the two of them together. They enjoyed their passions so thoroughly; they made such noise. Paulina was a good sport all the way around. She spent most Sunday evenings at our apartment after that, usually spending the night. We didn’t always start out in the kitchen on her nights with us but when we didn’t, it was solely because we were dining in bed. .

In the many weeks that followed, we experimented with all sorts of vegetables, helping Paulina give birth to quite an unusual selection. We had such great times with her, in fact — that and she’d lost the lease on her pricey uptown apartment — that in March, we asked her to move in and were delighted when she did.

One rainy night when we were feeling contemplative — the dinner had been heavy: a beef ragout with a Saint-Emilion — Paulina lamented once again that she had never given birth the real way. “I never got to breastfeed my baby,” she said. “I really wanted to experience that, too.”

As usual, Bertrand and I glanced at each other, reading each other’s thoughts. Paulina’s breasts were so full and exquisite, her nipples so responsive, that nursing would likely have sent her into orgasmic bliss in record time.

“In my country,” she assured us, “women can give milk without being pregnant. It is not necessary to be with child in order to give milk.”

We were sceptical, Bertrand and I. The following day, over the telephone, we consulted with some fetishists we knew on East 9th Street and they, in turn, assured us that it was true. The trick, they said, was to fool the pituitary gland into thinking Paulina had an infant to nurse.

Really? This was certainly news to us. But intriguing news; exciting news!

“It would require constant suckling, of course, maybe even for a couple of months. Do you think you’re up for the task?”

Constant suckling at Paulina’s breasts, her ecstasy so contagious that it would nearly make us come, as well? We hung up the phone. Our mission was clear: we would suck on Paulina’s nipples, night and day, until the milk came out. It was a mission that suited us thoroughly. And as luck would have it, in late spring, when Paulina’s milk finally came, I found myself with child. Bertrand and Paulina couldn’t have been more pleased. With Veuve Cliquot, they joyously toasted the baby’s conception. Though no less joyous, I abstained, however, from the champagne and thought instead of the moment of birth, contemplating ecstasy.