Erotica from Penthouse by Marco Vassi Page A

the hundreds of times my mother asked if I dressed warmly enough. Then, leaving my clothes where they fell, I stepped to the edge of the vent. To my surprise, I had entered a warm, wet world not unlike a steambath. And as I glided around in the hissing vapor, I began to enjoy the alternating gusts of cold and hot air.
    “That's it,” said Jonathan, “keep on moving in and out of the steam.”
    “This must be New York's version of Old Faithful,” laughed Paula. She and Daniel soon joined me. The three of us danced in slow motion around the vent.
    “Eva, keep dancing,” Jonathan cried. “I want Paula and Daniel to kiss.” I moved around them as they embraced, thinking of Jonathan and me.
    “Now the three of you together,” Jonathan directed. Paula drew me into their embrace so that I was sandwiched between them. Her hands stroked my thighs, then glided up my waist and cupped my breasts. Daniel lifted my face to his and gave me a long kiss, his tongue probing deeply. When he rubbed his erection on my thigh, I gasped with pleasure.
    “Eva, put on your cape and come here,” Jonathan said. “I want you to watch them.” He photographed Paula and Daniel's love-making while I looked on with frustration and envy. Then he put down his camera, opened my cape, knelt before me and began to suck and lick my clitoris. His tongue, then his fingers, pushed me to the edge of orgasm. I began to unzip his pants, but he drew away and began packing up his camera equipment.
    I assumed he was shy about making love in front of Paula and Daniel. This thought mitigated my sense of rejection. When he dropped me off at my house, I began to caress his cock through his pants. But again he stopped me. I felt acutely disappointed, but said nothing.
    “Stay with me,” he whispered cryptically before driving away.
    A few days later Jonathan called to say the photographs were fantastic. He asked if I would pose again, this time with André, a French sculptor and friend of his. I agreed.
    “Nice secluded spot,” mocked André when we arrived at the location Jonathan had chosen. The only thing that obscured us from the traffic that whizzed by was a row of shabby forsythia.
    “It's an excellent vent,” Jonathan exclaimed, admiring the clouds that escaped from the street grille.
    André and I shed our clothes and stepped close to the vent. He was blond, uncircumcised and well built. As he moved around me, striking various poses, he looked like a statue.
    “The Rape of the Sabine Woman,” he called out, lifting me up.
    “That's good,” Jonathan said. “Now let's see the Rape of the Sabine Man.” André and I laughed, amused at the idea that I could overpower him. “And Eva,” Jonathan added, “can you make the pose less metaphorical and more specific?”
    Then I understood. Certainly André did, because he became instantly erect. Before I could decide if I wanted to pursue this latest development, André embraced me. I submitted, closing my eyes and pretending that it was Jonathan's cock I was sucking. When André groaned with pleasure I looked up. Jonathan had stopped photographing and was watching us. But we did not make love that night either.
    Over the next several weeks I posed with painters, writers, an Ethiopian who sold Arabian horses, an editor at the city newspaper and other photographers. Sometimes there were as many as seven or eight of us gathered around a vent.
    Several times the police came. Only one officer was outraged enough to threaten us with arrest. Two showed us steam vents where we could photograph with more privacy. Almost all of them wanted to watch us work, but none accepted our invitation to be part of the group.
    The mood of the evenings varied. Everyone involved took the project seriously, but there was also much hilarity among us. What many of the sessions had in common was sex. All the nakedness and touching was hard to control, and sometimes people would begin to make love.
    Jonathan liked to direct people