Ermine Farouche

by bluepervina - © 2005

( MM, Fsolo )

[09/29/05] - This is not a long piece, and it's definitely one that I'd like to do some more with. The MMF potential is intriguing, especially since the woman will be much more of a voyeur than a participant, much more of an orchestrator than a player. Also, I really want to write more man-on-man scenes. Ermine will factor in as a huge wild card, sort of their guide for the Total Depravity Tour de Force that I'd like to send them on. I want to involve twins. And at least one large dog. And bees. Don't write and suggest midgets, though, because that's been done. (Yes, so have twins, but that never gets old, does it?)

Last call was over. The club was closed.

"Well, what the fuck are we gonna do?" Jenna stood next to me and my friend John as we waited near the mouth of a long, crowded alley. We had just finished watching the bouncer close the line, walk inside the large black door, and lock the club up. A crowd of at least one hundred half-drunk revelers groaned and turned dejectedly away. It was too late to drink in our town. God bless the moral majority. But I had a plan.

Jenna couldn't wait for me to get that plan out of my mouth, however. "Eastman, what the FUCK are we gonna do, god-fucking-DAMMIT?" She leaned against the alley wall and fished in her purse for a cigarette and lighter. "Be the fucking man with the plan, yo?"

"So profane, honey. So base. Honestly, Eastman, don't you ever get tired of hearing that mouth?" John, of course, was full of shit. He came with us on every one of these bar crawls, and he always had his stupid snide things to say. Mr. Superior was just a role. He knew how to get nasty, too. He was also lighting up, waiting for me to come up with the big idea. That's always how it is with them.

And that's what sucks about threesomes. There's inevitably the one person who runs it all, who gets it going or drags it down. There's some pressure in that. But the payoff is worth it.

"OK, so let's hit Denny's," I said, reaching out for one of the two lit cigs that Jenna was holding up. Before I even grabbed it, the usual reaction hit.

"Fuck THAT, Eastman. That's always your idea."

John chimed in. "Yeah, gotta agree, bro. It's no fun anymore slogging on in there with a thousand other drunks and homeless shits at fuck-thirty o'clock in the pitch dark. Like a freak show and all that." He blew smoke at me, mock-condescending. "We've been over this before. I think there was an inservice....."

I blew my own smoke right back at him. "Joke, cocksucker. J-O-K-E." Then I grabbed my package for emphasis, thrusting my hips at him a few times, blowing kisses. John just smiled and stepped up close to me. I could smell the JD and the Marlboro on his breath as he reached down and brushed away my hand, replacing it with his own, massaging me expertly through my jeans. We kissed for at a least a minute before some guys trudging by snorted, "Fags," and started muttering among themselves.

Jenna, on the other side of us, still against the wall, was jamming her free hand down inside her jeans while she smoked with the other. As she watched us french she was stroking her clit and humming to herself. One of her favorite things in the universe was just sitting back and masturbating to the sight of two men sucking and fucking. Lucky for her, John and I liked doing that a lot.

However, with potential gay-bashers afoot, we decided to get the hell out of that particular part of town.

"OK, so here's the real plan," I announced as we jumped into a cab. "Ermine Farouche."

Ermine Farouche was a son of Moroccan aristocracy, but his branch of the family had emigrated to England over a century ago. To further complicate matters, his father was a French hell-raiser, so his mother got exiled for marrying him and sullying the family's proud blood. The fact that Ermine ended up in America was merely the result of chance - he'd met an American girl abroad and decided to follow her home. He still lived with her, and the two of them maintained a large estate in the countryside. It was a great place to party.

I knew Ermine because I owned and operated my own web commerce and security business. Ermine's servers and the sites they supported were some of my top priorities every week. He paid me very well to keep his web biz flowing smoothly and securely. And there was a lot of flow going on, too, since most of Ermine's online interests were hardcore porn. And his best-selling commodity of late was a couple of twins named Allison and Emily.

I routinely visited Ermine and his local servers at his estate, and about once a month I made a trip offshore to visit his remotes. He and I had enjoyed an excellent business relationship for several years now, so naturally Ermine maintained an open invitation for me to come out, any time I liked, "For your leisure, my friend," as he put it. Jenna and I had only been out there for "leisure" once, so far, but it was a weekend we'll never forget. In fact, for a good long while we'd been teasing John about how great it was and all that he had missed; it was going to be a shame, almost, to bring him along now and lose so many chances in the future to taunt him even more.

But John was a novelist, and right now he was between books and sort of adrift. Perhaps a trip to Ermine's was exactly the kind of dick-bending distraction he needed. (Might even get me onto his dedication page next time.) I'd been keeping an eye out for a good opportunity to go to Ermine's with John, and I figured this was definitely it. For the first time in months, John actually looked eager, excited about something.

"Oh, hell yeah!" said Jenna, and John was nodding, and that was that. As I directed the cabbie on how to get there, John got me unzipped and pulled my jeans and briefs down around my ankles. Jenna fished out a couple of twenties as the cabbie started to protest, passed them to him, and said, "Shut the fuck up and relax, asshole," and he did.

Jenna leaned back against the door and unzipped her jeans. Putting one foot up on the seat and one foot on my knee, she was nicely slouched and spread just enough for her hands to work their way down to her crotch, to "spread and squiggle", as she liked to say. I could smell her musk as much as I could smell my own.

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