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This site contains explicit writings on sex, BDSM, roleplay, and various mature fantasies.

It was a little after six p.m. on a rainy Monday evening when I remembered the card. It had been a horrible day, and the sudden memory was like being hungry and recalling that you had some delicious leftovers in your refrigerator.

It had been a while since I used the card and so I ended up opening every drawer in my apartment looking for the pretty red card stock with the gold foil print. It was nowhere in sight. I became a bit frantic because as my mood grew sour, it seemed like that card was the only thing that could save my day.

After almost an hour, I finally found it in the pocket of my tuxedo jacket, which was hanging neatly in the back of my closet.

Once I had the card, I rushed out of the house and got a taxi. In five minutes, I was riding through the pouring rain, through the gray city. The storm had come, but it didn’t push out the heat. Everything was soggy and miserable, including me.

I arrived at a big squat stone building that was on a nondescript street downtown. I had heard it was once a church’s rectory. There were wide steps leading to a pretty archway, with gargoyles and crosses and all the trimmings.

I smiled as I got out of the cab and opened my black umbrella.

I pressed the doorbell next to the grand door of the place and heard the high metallic buzz go off inside.

The same old man answered the door. He seemed to have always been there. A pale European man in his 70s with silver hair with a short well kept beard and sunken eyes. He wore a navy suit, which was a little large for his frame and had an accent I couldn’t place.

“Good evening, sir. May I help you?”

It was the same every time. I didn’t know if he actually didn’t remember me or if he pretended to be oblivious no matter who was at the door.

I fumbled in my pocket for the card. When I showed it to him, his demeanor changed slightly. He opened the door wide and ushered me in.

“Excellent, sir. And what do you seek this evening?” the old man asked.

“Comfort,” I said with a long sigh.

“Of course, sir. The reading room?” He suggested.

“Yes, please.”

“I’ll call down to you when they are ready, sir,” he said with a little bow, then he turned and went up the stairs behind him.

I waited in the familiar foyer. It was all dark wood and brass lamps with low warm light. The floor was ancient wood, covered in deep red Indian rugs. The place was surprisingly cool and dry, the old stone walls keeping the storm at bay.

“Sir, they can see you now,” the old man said from the top of the stairs.

When I met him up there, he took my jacket, my wet umbrella, and my blazer.

“They’ll have something to warm you up, sir,” the old man said, with a nod.

The room was a magnificent Rococo style lounge. The floor was patterned parquet, with diamonds of dark and light wood, partially covered by sumptuous gold and baby blue rugs that had elaborate embroidery of angels and wreaths of flowers.

The walls were white, with gilded gold moldings and elaborate panels of blue, along with little nooks and sconces here and there holding candelabras and statuettes. The high ceilings held two massive chandeliers supported by ornate medallions carved with cherubs and mermaids.

There were a few tables, but all of them were against the walls, leaving most of the room empty, save a cluster of fainting couches, blankets, and what must have been one hundred pillows in the center of the floor.

It was as if Marie Antoinette had her maids build her a pillow fort. Layer upon layer of sky blue, pastel green, and shimmering gold velvet pillows formed a sort of nest, with three chaise lounges as their borders on each side and their back, leaving the front of the den open to me.

This nest was filled with seven beauties. Seven buxom, glowing, plump angels. All of them in some state of undress. Some in pretty lingerie, some topless, one completely nude, save a blanket half-covering her. All of them were touching each other in some way, draped over each other like napping kittens in a box.

I felt like I walked into a dream, only my dreams were never so glorious and decadent.

Smiles greeted me. Bright, warm smiles on red lips. Arms were open, calling for me.

One woman, the one that sat up a bit taller than the rest, beckoned to me.

“We are so glad you came back,” she said in almost a whisper.

It was then that I noticed the sounds in the room. I didn’t see any speakers, but I heard very soft music, some comforting chamber piece, light like a breeze. There was only the sound of that music and the occasional whisper and giggle from the women.

The woman who called to me was tall, I could tell even though she was laying down, propped up on pillows and the thick thighs of her sisters. She wore a fuzzy burgundy cropped top sweater, somewhat frilly purple boy shorts, and thigh-high socks that were striped with autumnal tones of orange, green, red.

Her eyes were a deep brown, with flecks of gold. Her hair, long tendrils of chocolate brown, and her skin a soft golden brown, dusted with freckles. As I settled in front of her, she guided me to lay on my back with my head resting on her large soft breasts. She smelled of some light and delicate perfume and of soap and powder and cream.

Her hands went to my head, her cool palm on my forehead at first, then her fingers gently petting me, smoothing my hair, calming me.

As she comforted me, I sensed the other women adjusting their positions. Moving a bit closer. Spooning and cuddling next to us. I felt the gentle warmth of their bodies.

The woman closest to us, the one whose lap the woman I was resting on was herself leaning against, picked up a book with a blue cover, printed with stars and tiny people, and swirls.

She was stunning, with dark hair in a bob and sparkling green eyes. Her lips were painted a deep red and were hypnotic.

The book was one I remembered. It was the one they had read to me the last time I was there. I was a bit surprised when she opened it and pulled out a bookmark, then carried on from where she left off. It filled me with some strange joy that this was my book, waiting on a shelf just for me, and now that I had returned, it was ready to continue.

The woman I rested on top of had the most amazingly soft sweater on, it was cashmere, and its softness was amplified by her large pillowy breasts. I was almost immediately under a spell of comfort and arousal.

She cooed in my ear and kissed my cheek gently, and the dark-haired woman next to us began to read, her voice sounding practiced and steady, but also melodic and delicate.

“Cities and eyes. The ancients built Valdrada on the shores of a lake, with houses all verandas one above the other, and high streets whose railed parapets look out over the water. Thus the traveler, arriving, sees two cities: one erect above the lake, and the other reflected, upside down,” she read.

I felt another woman move closer, taking my hand and placing it on her naked breast. She held her hand over mine, squeezing my hand gently and thus coaxing my hand to squeeze her breast.

The storyteller’s voice was hypnotic. The beauty of the words almost lost in the cadence of her reading, yet the perfection of the prose sometimes cutting through the haze with one or two perfect turns of phrase.

“Nothing exists or happens in the one Valdrada that the other Valdrada does not repeat, because the city was so constructed that its every point would be reflected in its mirror,” she went on.

Another hand reached for mine, taking it gently and placing on a downy patch of short pubic hair. I let my fingers slip across this light bit of curls playfully.

“Even when lovers twist their naked bodies, skin against skin, seeking the position that will give one the most pleasure in the other,” she read on.

I wanted to close my eyes and fall deeper into the warmth and comfort that enveloped me, but I couldn’t miss any of the sights that surrounded me. I sighed deeply, my cheek rubbing against the cashmere.

Another shift and a bare breast was presented to my lips. I saw a pretty nipple, a deep rose color, large areola, which was very round and wonderfully puffy. I extracted my hand from petting the soft down, and reached up for this new breast. I felt the delicious weight of it in my hand. I brushed my thumb against the hardening nipple, then I brought it to my mouth and traced my tongue around the particular texture of it.

“At times the mirror increases a thing’s value, at times denies it,” she went on.

It went on and on. My hands and fingers and mouth exploring a rainbow of tactile sensations. Eventually, a wide-eyed girl slipping between my legs to gently open my pants and take me in her hot mouth. Finally, the thick-thighed woman I rested against giving me the perfect end to my evening, by wiggling out of her shorts and slowly parting her legs and letting me bury my face between them.

There was a moment, some perfect moment that was framed in the gallery of my mind, when I eagerly tasted her, while someone sucked on my cock, and two hungry hands pulled my fingers to touch them, please them, and the music mingled with moans and whimpers and cries of pleasure, and I heard the reader’s sweet voice break.

“Lips clenched on the pipe’s amber stem, his–beard–oh–fuck–yes!”

I felt into a real dream soon after, but only for a bit. I awoke to find my world a landscape of thighs and plump asses and pillows and breasts. I laid there just taking it in, feeling much like the traveler in the book, finding some new city, one made entirely of curves and cleavage and clefts and lips.

But the time came for me to leave, and I very carefully extracted myself from the napping pile.

I saw the reader was sitting up. She smiled at me and took the bookmark and looking me in the eye, kissed it, and placed it between the pages of the open book.

I knelt, and she put the book down and reached for me. Her arms slipped around me, and she hugged me tightly. I felt a ripple of longing and fear rush through me. Would any comfort ever be as good as this?

She kissed me then, her lips warm and gentle and mind-bogglingly soft.

It seemed like it was a goodbye kiss, some final comfort, but the passion of it seemed to flare, and it didn’t end. We kissed and kissed and fell onto the pillows and made out like kids. It was magical. It was a glorious cherry on top of the most fantastic cake.

Finally, lipstick smeared and laughing, we parted. I gave her one more peck on the lips. She closed her eyes and smiled.

“Thank you,” she said.

I didn’t know how even to begin to thank her. The fact that she thanked me was ridiculous.

“I love you all,” I whispered.

She smiled at that.

I stood on shaky legs and made my way to the door.

The old man was there with my things.

“I’ll get a car for you, sir,” he said quietly.

I nodded numbly.

I waited out front in the light spitting rain and let my head spin with the memories, the smell of them on my lips, on my hands, that final kiss tugging at my heart.

I went home and slipped under my blanket, sure that my dreams could never eclipse what I had experienced that night.

END

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