Dirty Sins
God, why the hell is it so hot in here? I felt on the verge of melting clean out of my clothes, into a wet, sticky puddle on the floor. Every inch of my skin was prickling uncomfortably, flaring up, making me feel as though my entire body was on fire. Perspiration was running down along my neck, seeping into my blouse, and dripping tantalizingly down along my spine.
I kept walking past the damn thermostat every time I happened to be in its vicinity, thinking for certain one of these times or another I would spot it turned up ridiculously high, or else simply broken. But every time I laid eyes on its face, it was like the damn thing was just making fun of me.
The temperature set at such a reasonable level that it should have been impossible to break out in a sweat. On some level, it was baffling and frustrating as hell, but honestly, it wasn't like I didn't know the true cause of what I was going through.
I didn't know how much longer I could suffer through this though. There was only so much of this torment a girl could take before things started getting intense, physical, spiraling out of her control. I mean, I sure as hell hadn't asked to be put in that situation, and really, what girl in her right mind would?
It was getting harder and harder, as the minutes ticked by, to maintain any semblance of composure whatsoever. And I feared, in my disheveled, maddened state of being, that sooner or later I would be completely unable to avoid giving myself and my seedy, inappropriate thoughts away to the devilishly attractive guest in the living room.
I just had to focus, I knew; I had to move through this thing carefully in order to avoid falling into the many traps set before me. I stared out the kitchen window for a moment into the darkening evening, the sun getting dimmer and dimmer at a rapid speed, and the mood becoming an even hazier, sensual one.
I turned, suddenly, almost ridiculously, shooting my head around to each side over my shoulders, thinking for certain that he was there, right behind me, leering at me, undressing me with his eyes, much as I'd done with his own incredible physique so many times in my own mind throughout the course of the evening.
But of course, he was nowhere to be found. Of course, he wasn't. I felt like he was one of those damn paintings, the ones where their eyes followed you around the room. Anywhere I went while he was under this roof, I felt certain I would feel him, boring into me with his eyes, penetrating me to my core, seeing so thoroughly into myself that there was nothing left to conceal.
And hell, even if I did happen to survive the evening until he made his way out the door, I had no reason to suspect that that feeling would go away. The prickling beneath my skirt, the goosebumps erupting across my skin, the sweat soaking me, and the feeling of an intimidating, looming presence lingering on and on and on.
Christ. I had to focus, I had to... or else it would only get much, much worse.
I closed my eyes and took a deep, deep breath. I tried to clear my head for a moment, to wash out any imagery of the man in the living room from my brain. To wring it out to dry, cleanse it, and leave it back in the clean, innocent territory where it should properly be.
But, of course, at this point there was only so much that could really be cleaned away from it, only so much that I could get it back on target, and with sad resignation, I opened my eyes again, knowing I was going to have to just grin and bear it until Daniel came home.
I reached out a hand for the neck of the wine bottle and plunged the corkscrew into the lid, twisting it off, and gently tipping the bottle over into two, clean champagne glasses. My hands shook dangerously as the deep-red liquid sloshed into its respective containers, and I practically became drunk off of the stuff simply from coming into contact with it.
Eventually, it became too much for me, and I cursed as I spilled a more than generous splash of the stuff across the kitchen counter, nearly knocking the filled glasses over as well, but hastily preventing myself from doing so at the last minute. It seemed like a tremendous, colossal deal for a moment, this spilling of our beverages, and I think I almost flew into a damn panic attack at the sight of the tart substance oozing across the kitchen counter.
But then, I closed my eyes yet again, taking a deep, intense breath, and struggling once more to clear my head. This, in itself, was no big deal, and if I couldn't manage an incident as inconsequential as this, there was no way I was going to survive once I made my way back out there into the living room.
I opened my eyes again, stilling my nerves for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, and went about carrying on my facade of self-composure to the extent it proved possible. I grabbed a kitchen towel and hastily sopped up the mess of the spilled wine, then cast the dirty rag aside and gripped the necks of the glasses so tightly I might have damn near popped them off, in order to avoid dropping them and the glass shattering all over the place.
And now it was time. There was no avoiding it.
I emerged, a ball of nerves, into the living room, the most artificial smile you might care to imagine peeled red and glossy across my made-up lips, and my demeanor so saccharine that I might have passed myself off as one of the damn Stepford Wives.
He wasn't in his seat anymore, and this realization sent an instant spike of panic through my body. But then, I saw, he was just standing and looking at the wall of framed photos on the other side of the room; a cold shiver of relief made its way in the opposite direction.
“Hey, um... I've got the wine. Sorry it took so long; I had a little bit of a spill in the kitchen.”
He turned to me, and for the hundredth time that night, my heart nearly burst, skipping a beat, at the sight of his dark, handsome face.
“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that,” he said in his most seductive of voices, the sound of it alone getting me embarrassingly wet with want, and my ability to resist him diminishing further and further by the minute. “Do you need help cleaning up or anything?” he offered.
“Oh, no, no,” I said, shaking my head a little bit too insistently, I'm sure, and handing the glass of wine to him before I had the chance to spill it again. “No, I got it all cleaned up; it was just a small accident. Thank you, for offering, though.”
“Of course,” he said lowly, smiling that dark, malevolent smile of his, and I tried, stupidly, to smile back. It felt like my lips weren't really working, to be honest, and I'm certain it came out more as a grimace than anything. God, I felt like an idiot. Convinced that I was almost surely creeping him out with my own discomfort, I tilted my head back and downed a generous amount of my wine, nearly draining the entire damn glass in one gulp.
It was ridiculous, I knew, but if I was going to make it through this, I was going to need as much alcohol in my system as was humanly possible. As I drank, I glanced over at the grandfather clock on the opposite wall. It was almost 7:30. Damn it. Daniel should have been there at around 6:45, at the very, very latest. I was about to go flipping out of my mind.
Then, suddenly, there was my guest's dark, ensnaring voice once again, and I nearly choked on my wine as I turned toward him, distracted as I'd been, and caught very suddenly off guard.
“I was just looking at the photos you all have hanging up over here. Like this one, of your wedding day? You look astonishing in this.”
“Oh, uh, thank you,” I said, my mind racing, and physical compliments not at all the sort of thing I needed to hear from the man right then if I had a hope in hell of resisting his many unspoken temptations. “Yeah, three years, now,” I stammered, extending a trembling finger encased in a gold wedding band his way.
I needed to remind him that I was, in fact, a happily married woman, or at least that was the excuse I made for doing this; although in hindsight, I'm almost certain that it was more like I needed to convince myself to carry out this small, stupid gesture.
It was a huge mistake, though, as I realized very suddenly, because now he was reaching over, taking my hand in his hand, pulling it close to himself as though to study the ring around my finger. A wave of shivers came pumping through my body, and my breasts began to beat wildly with anxiety, my head spinning, and my teeth sinking deep into my lower lip.
“Wow, that's really beautiful,” he said, gazing at the damn thing with more intensity than I felt was necessary, his grip all the while driving me wild. His hand was large compared to mine, rough and strong and warm, causing my own palms to sweat with the passing of every second I remained captive to his grip. “You have very soft hands,” he ventured, smiling up at me in a way that seemed both to feign innocence and to acknowledge that he knew exactly what the hell it was he was doing.
At last, he let go of me, and my fingers seemed to withdraw very slowly back into position, clenching into a tight fist at last at my side, as though to prevent without question any danger of such contact being repeated at any point in the future. I cleared my throat again, and tried to think of what I should say to this.
“I, um... yes, I moisturize. Thank you.” I smiled feebly once again, unable to raise my eyes to meet his own this time around, and attempting to figure out where to steer the conversation. Instead, I tilted the wine glass one, final time to my lips, drinking away the last of my sweet, inebriating nectar, and my head spinning just a little bit as I struggled to see straight.
“I'm sorry again about Daniel not being here yet,” I said finally, looking once more at the clock. “I thought, you know, since he was the one having a friend over for dinner, he might actually be here when he was supposed to be. But, I guess, joke's on me.”
He smiled at this, looking over at me and studying me, and I had to avert my eyes once again. I tried to use the excuse of taking another sip of my wine, but by the time I'd raised it halfway up to my lips, I recalled that the glass was already empty, and I was forced to bring it back down, feeling largely like a complete ass at having done this.
“Oh, that's all right. Daniel always was just a little bit that way... unpredictable. A real wild card, honestly. That's what I always loved about the bastard,” he grinned, and I grinned back at this. But then he added, “Plus, this way I get the privilege of meeting his pretty wife while he's gone.”
This, as you might expect, stirred something in me, and I squirmed in my seat with discomfort.
“So, um... Ryan... you two know one another from college?” I offered, changing the subject as promptly as I could possibly do, blushing, I could tell my cheeks were about as red as the wine still sloshing around in his glass.
“Oh yes,” he said, peering into the surface of his drink reflectively, as though having become suddenly absorbed in nostalgia.
“Yes, your husband and I were very close back in the day. He and I did just about everything together during that time. It's strange, really; beginning such a close friendship with someone at that age... sometimes it really feels like the two of us have known one another since childhood, even if it's only really been just a few years.”
I smiled at this, but tried to calculate a few things in my mind. It seemed, I don't know... peculiar to me that these two should be such close friends, given that the man sitting across from me hadn't shown up as a guest at our wedding, and if he'd been as close with my husband as he presently claimed, he should reasonably have been best man material, or at the very least an usher.
I wondered, vaguely, if there was some degree of untruth to what he said, or whether, perhaps, there had been a falling out between the two of them at some point, that had, for the time, prevented his attendance at our special day.
I put these sorts of thoughts aside for the time being, aware that they would do me no good at the present, and if anything, would only serve to aggravate an already tense situation even further.
“What was he like?” I asked, suddenly, surprising even myself just the least bit at the sound of the words passing forth from my lips. “My husband, I mean, back when you knew him in college?”
Ryan smiled. “Well, that's a hard question... I don't want to get him in trouble with his wife or anything,” he said, winking playfully at me, and even though I knew the joke was directed at Daniel, I couldn't manage to make the distinction between this and flirtation, and I found myself blushing yet again in spite of myself.
“But, well,” he continued, staring into his wine glass reflectively, and considering his words. “I guess you could say he and I had a bit of a penchant for getting ourselves into trouble. And I mean, hell, nothing that serious or anything. I don't mean to make it sound more dramatic than it was or anything.
“Not like we were arrested, or anything like that, although I guess there were probably occasions when we could have been.” He chuckled at this, although it didn't do much for me in terms of easing my nerves. “But, you know, just normal, college-kid stuff. Dumb things, really. We liked to keep our professors and the campus police on their toes.”
I chuckled flakily, and asked, faintly curious, “Like what?”
For the next several minutes, my guest went on to describe some of his and my husband's antics over the course of their college careers, although I have no idea what the hell any of the specifics were on anything. Something about pranks and drinking, that sort of thing, but the details were entirely lost on me as I gazed deep into the man speaking to me.
On several levels, asking for this sort of insight into their past lives was probably a mistake on my part, because listening to him tell a story meant that I would be forced to just sit quietly and stare at him, taking it all in, and unable to tear myself away even if I wanted to. And this, I felt, would be the death of me over the course of this already intense situation.
As his lips moved, distorting, melting, reshaping around the nonsensical words he spoke, I found my eyes dipping onto them, being sucked toward their gravity without a hope in hell of escaping. My stunned eyes bled over his body, moving over every, beautiful surface, taking in the whole of his astonishing reality as though he was the first man I'd ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on in my entire life.
Christ, what the hell was I going to do? He was just so... so devastating, so perfect to behold, like a damn male supermodel, or some species that was just the least bit sexier than a human was capable of being. And the thing was, I couldn't even lay my finger on just what the hell the specifics were about him, what certain things about his presence turned me on.
I ran into attractive men all the time, but as a rule, they didn't get me anywhere near as uncontrollably worked up as this sexy stud was. It was like, his entire being, everything about him, was sculpted, put together, in such a manner that it was calculated to be the most effectively crippling to my psyche, pulling me into him, and never letting me go.
My nostrils flared, and my mind raced as I examined him all over, ripping his clothes off in my mind and savoring every pulsing, sweaty bit of the flesh underneath. His jet-black hair, his penetrating eyes, and his light, sexy stubble framed a face that verged on severe in its beauty.
A perfect nose, an immaculately formed skull, the features all place in just the right spot, every angle, every flowing line enough to get swept up and lost in for eternity. His lips were of the sort that seemed made to be kissed, delicious and succulent, one could tell, from simply looking at them, and positively irresistible when you were forced to gaze across the room at them for as long as I had.
He was well-dressed, in a manner that made fashion seem effortless, though my concern was genuinely with what lay underneath the fabric, the bulging fierceness struggling at every corner to push its way free and consume me. I could tell, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was one fit, well-toned man, his body a damn wonderland of muscle and strength and severity, the glory of his anatomy unmistakable beneath the frustrating confines of his clothes.
His shoulders were beautifully broad, and his arms were thick, powerful as they shifted through the air with the telling of his story. His chest, meanwhile, was absolutely strapped, threatening to bust through his shirt anytime he strained too roughly in any direction, my eyes pinpointing onto the series of black buttons, willing them to come popping off and unveil the sweet, sexy treasure that lay underneath.
And then there was his ass... oh God, what an ass. I'd peeked at it so many times this evening, anytime his back was turned and I had the opportunity to catch a glance of the thing without him noticing. I could imagine those glorious glutes as plain as day, sculpted, toned, succulent, juicy, everything a girl could possibly ever want. And finally, I couldn't help but see, his crotch bulge, the fabric of his pants struggling to contain the immensity of his cargo below the belt.
The sheer splendor of the thing surely beyond what I could even begin to imagine. I wondered, vaguely, whether he was circumcised; my husband was, and though I'd heard mixed things about uncircumcised cocks depending on who you asked, I fantasized that his was just such a penis, with that extra bit of flesh going for it, able to please a woman in the most lurid, the most powerful of ways.
And good God almighty... I gasped, suddenly, caught up in my own fantasy and startling suddenly back to life.
“You all right?” my fantasy lover asked.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah, yeah I'm... I'm fine,” I said, and he smiled.
“So, anyway...” he said, and carried right on with his story.
I sank back into my chair, feeling as though I might get stuck to the damn thing in my ridiculous perspiration, and my head throbbing with an immense come-down after that bout of fantasizing.
What the hell was wrong with me? I was a married woman, for Christ's sake: a happily married woman, for that matter. It was ridiculous of me to be thinking sexual thoughts about any other man, and in particular my husband's best friend, when what the two of us shared was so strong, so vibrant, and so perfect.
Prior to this unbearable stud waltzing into my life, I had never even had the desire to be with another man. Daniel and I were perfect for one another, and in fact, he had been like a godsend for my life.
I'd been so miserable when the two of us had met, so committed to the idea that my life couldn't possibly get any better than the daily drudge that it had become at the time. I just felt so empty all the time, at my awful job and with my ridiculous student loan debt hanging above my head like a plague. Some days, I would just get home and feel like crying, and it had seemed as though finding anyone to share my life with was as vain and as impossible a task as anything else.
It just didn't seem like the sorts of guys I'd wanted to meet were out there, or else they were already taken, and I was left with a bunch of immature boys, or with the sorts of mature men who were so dull and unsatisfying that they made me even more depressed.
But then, when I'd met Daniel, sweet, wonderful Daniel, it had been like my entire life suddenly improved, and everything seemed like it was bearable again. It felt, for the first time in forever, like I could be happy, and I was, and when the two of us got married, it had been like nothing else in the world could come anywhere even remotely close to matching what an amazing feeling it was.
Three years. Three wonderful years together, like a lifetime with one another already, but our best days surely still ahead of the both of us. The spark had not died down in the least bit since the night of our honeymoon, and the two of us were in line with one another on so many levels that he somehow managed to meet my every need, even some needs that I didn't even realize were present.
Just this morning, for instance, he'd surprised me with sex, sex that catered to my every need. I'd been dreaming lightly at the time, very lightly, and basking in the early morning light bleeding across my skin from the bedroom window.
And then I'd felt him, knocking on my back door, if you will, the stiff, morning wood of his cock brushing playfully up against my backside through the fabric of my nightgown. It seemed like he always wanted me, and I always wanted him, and it seemed preposterous to imagine this ever being any other way.
I gently roused myself awake, stretching out like a feline in the sun, moaning lightly as I arched my spine and worked a few of the kinks of sleep from my back, and then I turned away from him, putting my back to him completely, just to torment him a little bit, but smiling all the way.
“Mm, God, put that thing away,” I muttered playfully, “You're going to poke someone's eye out.”
And at that, he pushed himself just a bit harder up against me, and I could feel my body reacting to his touch, turning on, and heating up first thing in the morning. I felt his fingers beginning to slide onto my body, creeping down my arm, and latching onto my breast, squeezing on me like I was his damn teddy bear, holding onto my body as though he simply needed to know I was there beside him.
He leaned in, then, and began to put his lips on the side of my neck, kissing me with the utmost tenderness, running warm, wet pecks all up and down my throat, and then doing me in by nibbling on my earlobe ever so slightly with his teeth. He squeezed harder, harder, and suddenly my want for him verged on unbearable, and I had to concede defeat, letting down the façade of my playful rejection.
I turned around in bed to face him, leering into his eyes with the ferocity of a predator, and then pouncing on him accordingly, pushing my mouth to his own. The two of us made out like we were newlyweds all over again.
Pulling our throbbing bodies together beneath the covers, our tongues piercing one another's gullets and sweeping, lapping, licking around, tasting one another like there was no damn tomorrow. We both tasted like morning, honestly, but that seemed secondary to the sticky, dripping haze of the moment, and I felt as though I couldn't possibly get enough of that sweet, glorious bastard into my body fast enough.
At last, we'd pulled ourselves apart, gasping at our own ferocity, our nostrils flaring as we struggled to regain our breath, and our chests beating heavily against one another. I could feel his erection digging deeper and deeper into me, bowling me over, as he leaned in and whispered into my ear: “I thought since you were making dinner this evening for Ryan and I, I could at least serve you breakfast in bed.”
I had a pretty good idea of what he meant by that as he said it and braced myself, and sure enough, suddenly he was dipping his head beneath the covers, disappearing from view, and his fingers beginning to creep sensually around the fabric of my gown down below.
My thighs began to quake as he pushed the hem of the thing up, and his fingers slipped beneath the tight, lacy band of my panties. I tried to still myself, to sit back and enjoy this for what it was, but it became impossible to contain myself as he dredged the skimpy fabric off of me, tossing it from beneath the covers onto the floor.
And slowly, he lowered his face in between my hot, wet thighs, and I could feel my body tense up with the seeping of his warm breath into my feminine anatomy. He gingerly brought himself inside me, entering my body like liquid, putting his lips up against those of my pussy, and his tongue pushing along inside me, swiping along the floral folds, and kissing me with such softness, yet such enthusiasm, that I didn't have a clue in hell whether I was coming or going.
And so he consumed me, his head a bobbing lump beneath the sheets, his tongue sweeping and cascading and absorbing my delicate flavor, rolling along with splendid perfection, and getting me so worked up that I thought I might burst with pleasure.
My buttocks clenched, and my spine arched, every square inch of my anatomy on fire with sensitized nerves, my nipples hard, my fingers curling into the bedspread, and my legs wrapping around his bobbing, lapping head, tying him into me, and pulling, pulling, pulling him deeper into myself, as though my very life depended on it.
And then, God help me, I felt him hitting the sweetest of my sweet spots, at just the right angle, at just the right time, and my eyes shot wide open. I screamed, and moaned, and it turned into nothing but a feeble whimper as the orgasm pumped through my body, soaking through my flesh to such a degree that I thought I might somehow stain the sheets with my pleasure, and every bit of my body trapped by the sweet, carnal splendor of my husband's perfect cunnilingus.
And good God, what a wake-up call it had been...
How could a girl like me have been so lucky to wind up with a husband like that, a husband who eats you out first thing in the morning without you even having to ask for it, and whose skills are so incredible, so unthinkably explicit and powerful, that you feel like you could go for days on the high of such an act alone?
And now, how could I be lusting so intensely after this man, this stranger in my living room? How could I be allowing myself to give into such temptation, surrendering to my most primitive instincts despite how terribly wrong I knew it was? And how was the sheer fact of it being so wrong making me want it more and more, making me crave it like I'd never craved anything in my life before now.
Making me burn from head to toe with an unquenchable thirst for what this man had to offer me, even if I knew that could only ever end in heartbreak?
And how was it, suddenly, that I was finding myself edging nearer to this man? I hadn't even recalled standing up from the chair in which I'd been seated; I only suddenly appeared to be drifting in his direction. But now there I was, and there he was, doing the exact same thing.
Why weren't we stopping one another? Why the hell did we just keep going, those lips of his drawing nearer and nearer and nearer to my own, approaching me as though in slow motion, but with no signs whatsoever of slowing down?
But it was too late. Entirely too late for either of us.
My lips were on his. His lips were on mine. Our faces, shockingly, melted together, dissolving into a brilliant, unified, fleshy alloy, sparks popping in my mind, my head spinning wildly out of control, every nerve in my body reacting with shock and surprise, unable to fathom what the hell I was doing. At first, the last, few threads of resistance continued to hold me back, to resist just slightly, only half indulging myself in those oh so glorious of temptations.
Not wholly allowing myself to be consumed in the fashion that I so desperately desired. But then, Christ help me, I gave into the impulse, I collapsed, and I allowed myself to be sucked in entirely, to kiss this man after an evening of being so devilishly tempted by him, and to put out of my mind completely the fact that I had a husband whom I was betraying.
And God, how wonderful it felt. His flavor, his essence, were shockingly beautiful, pumping through my body, filling me up with splendor, and making me want so much more of him; I knew it was unhealthy for me to even fantasize about it.
But then he pulled my body into his own, and I could feel his erection suddenly pushing into me, and our tongues twisted and screwed and enveloped one another, and I knew that I might as well give up resisting, and allow myself to be ravished to the thorough, all-consuming extent that I knew damn well was in store for me.
And at last, after so long of this, my nostrils flaring and my breasts heaving like mad, I pulled away from him, disbelieving, and my eyes wide as sin as I contemplated just how far I was willing to take this perverse plunge into adultery.
And that was when my heart yet again skipped a beat, though for an entirely different reason this time around—the sight of my husband, standing in the doorway, leering over at the two of us with a very unclear expression painted across his face.
I quickly pulled away from Ryan, distancing myself to the furthest extent possible, and scrambled, trying to think of some way, any way, to clean up this horrendous mess I'd gotten myself mixed up in, but coming in far short of the mark, no matter how hard I tried.
“Jesus... Daniel, I... I... you're late,” I stammered, projecting the blame onto him until I could think of some explanation, but I knew full well this was pointless. I tried, though, I really tried, clawing at the walls of my mind, trying to think of something, something, that would justify this.
“Look... I can explain... I... I...” But I knew, even as I'd said it, that there was no possible way of explaining myself out of this, no justification for what I'd done, and that coming up with anything was as good as pointless given how obvious and clear the situation was. I mean, hell, what was I supposed to say? That Ryan had been the one to initiate it? That he was responsible for all of this, and that I was just the innocent victim?
I couldn't do that, I knew. All I could do was wait for things to collapse around me, to take the punishment I was due, whatever that may have been, and hope that our marriage didn't implode outright from the implications of what he'd walked in and seen the two of us doing.
But then I noticed, from across the room, a smile was beginning to spread out across my husband's lips. I squinted my eyes at this, thinking, for certain, I must be seeing this wrong; this wasn't the sort of reaction a husband should be giving to finding out his wife has just kissed another man, and especially not his best friend.
But then I looked over at Ryan as well, and he had the same sort of grin on his face, devilish almost, seductive, and knowing. Although I should have felt some degree of relief, perhaps, I couldn't help but find myself downright annoyed at this, the fact that the two of them appeared to be in on some joke that was entirely on me.
Yet I was as oblivious as could be as to what the hell it was that was going on. I began to whip my head around back and forth, back and forth, back and forth between the two of them, trying my damnedest to get a read on just what was happening, but their expressions, though readable, gave nothing away in the least as to how I should have been reacting to all of this.
Then, at last, it was my husband who spoke, making everything clear to me, and sending the situation plummeting into even steamier, more forbidden territory than it had been at before.
“You know... Ryan and I have been very, very close friends for some time now. It's been a few years since we've seen each other, but only because our lives have taken on different directions lately. But, back in the day, the two of us did practically everything together... and I do mean everything.”
I swallowed hard, getting extremely nervous as the tense moments rolled along, and my husband began to walk across the room toward the two of us with measured, heavy footsteps.
“When you and I fell in love, I thought my days of fooling around—Ryan and I, sharing girls back in our dorm room, I mean—were over. Those were always fun times, and God, were they exciting, and the women we serviced always ended up leaving with a smile across their faces, often coming back for more.
“I never thought of you as that type of girl, though, and I didn't want to offend you with the suggestion... But, well... ever since Ryan and I got back in touch lately, we began to sort of long for our glory days, and I was curious to see how you might react around my friend here when it was just the two of you in a room together. He always was quite the lady's man.”
At this point, the two men were standing beside one another, my eyes darting feverishly back and forth from body to body and back again, and my breath short as I considered what it was they were proposing.
“So, if we are all attracted to each other, I guess I don't see much of a reason why the three of us just shouldn't simplify matters and make our evening together just the least bit more interesting.”
And that was when the two of them closed in on me, and I found myself putty in their collective grip.
To be honest, I couldn’t believe it was all happening, and yet, I loved this about it, feeling like it couldn't possibly be real, and allowing myself, therefore, to participate all the more fervently in it because of the fact. My husband was French kissing me like there was no tomorrow, his lips on mine and his saliva a welcome change to contrast with this other man's.
And Ryan, meanwhile, was kissing my neck, nibbling on my flesh, running his hands all along my body, and getting his first, real feel for the anatomy underneath. I was beginning to overheat between the two of them, I knew, the sweat rolling more fiercely than ever down along my skin, and my mind not fully able to process all of this, so that I had to focus to know which of the two I should be paying attention to at any given moment.
But now they were spinning me around, and around, dragging me across the living room and into the bedroom, draping me out across our marital bed and closing in on me once again. The problem of me overheating was half-solved by the placing of their hands onto the fabric of my dress.
The two of them, with some degree of effort, sliding me out of the thing, pulling it up over my head, and leaving me in nothing but my lingerie. My bra and panties felt entirely too small, too inadequate to cover me up in their presence, the straps of my bra falling down along my shoulder and the waistline of my panties bunched up in such a way that it revealed a generous portion of my mons pubis.
But, if my own partial nudity was any matter to be embarrassed about, then they, themselves, were soon to follow, agonizing me beyond belief as they began to peel out of their sweat-soaked shirts. Pulling the fabric up over their heads, and driving me wild with the sight of their perspiring, muscle-bound bodies.
It was a visual feast as I savored the contours of their respective anatomies, the devastating pecs and the rungs of their six-pack abdominals—not to mention their dual sets of Adonis muscles, two deeply cut Vs pointing like arrows to the respective treasures below their belts.
And speaking of this, suddenly they were unbuttoning and unzipping themselves, wriggling down out of their pants and underwear, sliding them to the floor, and leaving me beside myself as I gazed in awe as their taut, naked bodies. Both men, it was plain to see, were about as well-endowed as it was possible to be, their long, throbbing penises waving about through the air on either side of me, getting me so worked up with desire for them that I could hardly contain myself.
Surrounded by them, I began to service each man's cock, stroking the two of them from tip to base with my hands, my wrists getting tired quickly as I pumped them, and the streams of pre-ejaculate streaming down along their thick shafts in torrents. They seemed to love this, groaning with pleasure as I worked their flesh around, and then, much to my surprise, the two of them began to kiss.
I had had no idea, prior to any of this, that my husband had even the least bisexual streak in him whatsoever, but to watch the two of them now, going at one another like newlyweds, groping and feeling up one another on their tongues, you would have thought the two of them were lovers as old as the hills themselves.
Christ, how I loved the sight of it, their tightly compressed mouths latching together, and the masculinity of the two men's skulls creating an incredible, steamy contrast with the act of their kissing. My loins burned as I witnessed it, and I wanted so badly to touch myself, to play with my pussy, while my husband got down and dirty with another man.
Instead, though, I decided to escalate my pleasuring of the two men, parting my lips wide, and allowing my tongue to come out into the open. I began to lick them, sliding my mouth along each man's shaft and lapping up their long, hot rods, coating them with my saliva, and then proceeding to swallow each of them whole.
I deep throated each of them like a champ, gagging myself on each man's immensity until I couldn't stand it anymore, and then switching partners, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth between the two of them until I thought for sure I was about to receive a load or two in my mouth.
But then, the two of them seemed to take note of my effort, and instead of cumming on me, they pulled me in between the two of them, and stripped me out of my bra and panties. The three of us arranged our bodies on the bed into a triangular formation, and then each of us bowed our heads between the legs of the next in the line, sucking on whatever set of genitals happened to come into our path.
Ryan, as it turned out, was as skilled as a pussy licker as my husband happened to be, sliding his tongue through the wet, floral folds of my body, twisting and devouring me, soaking up my cunt and smothering himself so fucking deep in me that I thought I might collapse in on myself. It was difficult, then, to focus on sucking off my husband's cock up above, my lips suctioned around him, and my saliva pooling up around him as I struggled to breathe with flaring nostrils.
And finally, I looked down, and just about lost it altogether as I peered at my husband sucking his best friend's cock, his head bobbing wildly, almost brutally, smashing his lips against Ryan's body, fluids dripping down his chin, and Ryan's pleasure at this evident form the wild trembling of his thighs around my husband's bobbing head.
Son of a bitch, I thought. It didn't even matter which sex he was pleasuring: I simply had a husband who was absolutely phenomenal at oral sex.
Suddenly I snapped back to the present, orgasm coursing through my body on behalf of Ryan's own oral efforts, my muscles seizing, and my head soaring with the dripping, immaculate pleasure of climax.
And at last, it was time for the main event.
The three of us, heaving, panting, gasping for dear life, untangled ourselves with an immense degree of effort, reorienting our bodies once more on the bed, and the arrangement, this time around, even more amazing than the last.
Daniel splayed himself wide at the head of the bed on his back, his cock springing sharp into the air, and I crawled up onto him, still worn out just a bit from that first mind-boggling orgasm, but ready, oh so ready, for more. I leaned my full weight on the beautiful bastard, pinning his engorged penis up against his body, and loving the feeling of the hot, sticky thing pressing up against my stomach. I began to consume him, to kiss him wildly, grinding my pelvis up against his body in such a fashion that the intention of sex could not possibly have been mistaken.
The two men, however, had something slightly different in mind for me, and I allowed myself to be subjected to their whims quite gladly. Before I knew it, my body was being flipped complacently over on top of my husband, adjusted so that I was now lying on my back, and his strong arms wrapped around my own. It was like a set of human handcuffs, pinning me in place, and not allowing me to wriggle free no matter how hard I might have struggled. Not that I would have wanted to free myself of this oh-so-seductive arrangement, in any case.
No, I was all too happy to be imprisoned in this manner, as now Ryan was creeping his way up across the bedspread, his penetrating gaze hovering up to me, and driving me so wild that I thought I just might not survive all of this. His huge body came clambering up onto me, mounting me, and pushing my legs slightly up and apart so as to push me into just the right angle.
He pushed himself inside me, penetrating me, stretching me out, as inch by inch by agonizing inch of his immensity came sliding through the burning, floral folds of my pussy. I cried out in ecstasy, my body thrusting reflexively forward as at last he touched down inside me, but of course I was being held in place by my husband, and my limits were greatly restricted.
My head spinning, Ryan then began to plow me relentlessly, fucking me like there was no tomorrow, pounding, slamming, jackhammering my pussy, pushing and pumping and thrusting like mad. I was screaming, moaning, torrents of expletives pouring from my lips with each loud, wet smacking together of our genitals, driving me further and further up the wall as the moments slipped by, digging deeper, and deeper, smashing me to bits, and leaving me so damn frazzled that I couldn't even begin to think straight.
And then he began to pour himself into me, to release his hot load inside me, filling me up, and absolutely drenching me with his essence. And I came, harder than ever, sandwiched between the two men and reeling with delight, my body quaking, fighting against my husband's resistance and the force of Ryan's love, and the scene unlike anything I could have ever imagined as the last drops of pleasure were exhausted from my body.
And God, what a night...
The two men took turns having sex with me through the remainder of the evening, pushing me time and time again past my own limits, and leaving me so dizzy with pleasure that I didn't know which way was up. We honestly sort of forgot about the dinner we'd been planning, but from the way this first evening had gone together, we thought that maybe, just maybe, there was a chance that the three of us would be meeting again often enough in the future that we could probably stick a dinner in there somewhere.
And that became particularly true when, a few weeks later, I discovered that I happened to be pregnant, and it looked as though the three of our lives were about to become more entwined than ever before.
*****
THE END