From your vantage point in the open doorway, the world is a confusing place. Far more so than it might seem on any other day.
You’re watching your husband fucking another woman not four feet from where you stand, silent and attentive, in the living room doorway.
This is no realm of cliché, though. You haven’t crept in to the apartment in order to catch your man in flagrante delicto.
Far from it.
The truth is, you’ve been there since the very beginning, watching as he kissed her, caressed her, pressed her over the back of the leather sofa and then lifted her silken robe to bare her Rubenesque rear. You watched him move close behind her so he could glide his burnished glans across the wantonly pouting lips of her lust-glazed sex, watched their bodies stiffen in unison at the instant he entered her, as he eased the full length of his thick cock inside her. You listened to their mutual sighs and gasps of satisfaction as they fucked with swiftly growing passion.
So, no, you don’t feel confused because you caught them. You feel confused because you encouraged them, because you were the one who told him to take her, to fuck her over the back of the sofa, right in front of you. You feel confused because, rather than repulsing or horrifying you, watching them is turning you on, far more than you could ever have imagined. It’s left you wet, left you soaking; it’s made you want to drop the towel that’s wrapped around your body so you can add your nakedness to theirs.
Yet some instinct tempers your desire, makes you wait patiently on the sidelines instead.
So you watch and listen, absorbing every detail, every nuance. And after a while, the exquisite ache between your thighs grows too much for you to ignore, too much for you to bear, and your hand slips slyly beneath the hem of your towel, and you close your eyes and add your gasps to theirs as the tips of your fingers trace the first glorious lines across your sex.
You make the rhythm of their fucking your own. And as you watch and listen to them climax in near-perfect unison, your own orgasm erupts. For some reason, the same instinct that made you hold your ground earlier makes you bite down hard to still your own cries of completion.
Your eyes open again. The knife twists briefly in your stomach as you realise that he’s come inside her, that his semen has spurted against her most intimate flesh, that it’s coating her velvet walls even as you watch. But it’s a double-edged blade piercing you, the thought exciting you even as it alarms.
He leans over her as she collapses against the back of the sofa, supporting his weight with his arms. You watch the stranger press her arse back against your husband’s spent loins. Spent. He’ll be no use to you for some time. If you want fulfilment, you’ll have seek it out for yourself.
Silently, you turn away from them, walk down the narrow hallway and into the first bedroom. The strap-on that you purchased for this very encounter – a purple silicone phallus with a plush harness – is still on the bedside table where you abandoned it after the previous evening’s exertions. You scoop it up and start back towards the living room. A glimpse of your reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrored wardrobe stops you in your tracks. You look at yourself, then flick the towel open. Unwanted, it falls to the floor.
You regard your reflection just long enough to see the wicked desire in your eyes.
They’re still locked together when you return. She’s the first to look towards you. Her eyes – vivacious, cat-like – widen fractionally when she sees your nakedness, then the strap-on dangling from your right hand. He turns to follow her gaze, and contented resignation flickers across his face as he withdraws his wilting flesh from hers and stoops to gather his towel.
Relinquished by one lover, the woman walks to you unencumbered. A silver rivulet of your husband’s seed runs slowly down the inside of her right thigh. Seeing it sends another bitter-sweet thrill through your loins. She smiles mischievously, wantonly, and presses herself against you. Her breasts are soft against yours, her nipples as roused as your own. Her mouth is soft and crafty, stirring your senses in a way that your husband, that no man, ever could. Her clever tongue finds yours, coaxing it into a graceful, swirling dance that makes you believe you could actually swoon with the delicate pleasure.
A fresh wave of lust floods your cunt.
She breaks the kiss, takes you by your free hand and leads you back towards the bedroom. You’re vaguely aware of your husband following slavishly behind you. When these games began, it was you that decried that you must always play together, in unison. The mathematics of the situation were set in stone: two plus one. Always two plus one: no other computation permitted. Yet you’ve just orgasmed while watching him fuck another woman with no involvement from yourself; and right now, you don’t give a damn whether or not he follows you into the bedroom.
What’s happening to me?
What’s happening to us?
She guides you into the room until she stands with her back to the king-sized bed. She kisses you again, more passionately now, desire overwhelming delicacy. She reaches up to cup the sides of your breasts, then slips her hands inwards, her palms and then her fingers brushing across your hard nipples. Absently, you let the strap-on to drop onto the bed and take her breasts in your hands. The soft caresses that you share wax and wane with your kisses. She makes you gasp with surprise as she squeezes your nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, and you delight in returning the favour.
Your lover breaks the kiss and eases herself away from you. You watch as she settles herself on the very edge of the bed and then parts her thighs with delicious languidness. Her eyes, wide, submissive, hold yours. The invitation is obvious. Her body, her sex, is yours to take.
Further invitation is not necessary.
You kneel before her, running your palms along the softness of her thighs. Her cunt is swollen and slick; your husband’s come still oozes between her plump labia. You lean forward. The scent of her sex – a heady, aromatic combination of feminine desire and masculine lust – makes your head spin. Your tongue flickers against her clitoris, tasting her, tasting him. She gasps, running her fingers through your hair, leaning back and opening herself to you brazenly.
There was fear to begin with, fear of how you’d feel confronted by the sight, the smell, the taste of your husband’s lust mingled with hers. But now … now the blend of her essence with his is compelling, addictive.
Rationality, lucidity, both surrendered in a fraction of a second in the face of pulsating desire.
You ease a path between her labia, pressing your tongue deeply inside her cunt. Your husband’s warmth spills over your taste buds and you accept it willingly, greedily, the nectar slipping naturally down your throat. The tip of your tongue makes darting raids upon her clitoris, but your focus remains within, and you lap greedily at the remnants of his seed until none remains.
From between her thighs, her face looks flushed, her eyes drunk with desire. She glances past you, back towards the doorway, and, with a tinge of reluctance, you follow her gaze. Your husband leans against the door frame, watching you raptly. The only emotion in his face is hunger. His cock already shows signs of resurgence.
You turn your attention back to your lover.
Her eyes seer into yours. “I want to feel your pussy pressed tight against mine,” she tells you breathlessly. “Will you make me come like that? Make us both come that way? Your hot cunt kissing mine? Please?”
It’s the most lascivious question you’ve ever been asked. It both daunts and galvanizes. Your answer, though, is inevitable.
“Yes,” you whisper to her.
She eases herself back into the centre of the bed, raising one slender leg into the air, offering herself to you once more. The tip of her tongue traces around the edges of her mouth.
Her sex is covetous, expectant. You can’t tear your gaze away from the loveliness of her vulva. Looking at her so intensely raises your skin into goose flesh, sends thrilling ripples of ice down your spine.
You climb onto the bed, positioning yourself so that you’re straddling her lower leg, so that your cunt is barely an inch above hers. You can feel her heat, and her sly smile suggests that she feels yours too. You hold her raised leg in both hands, and she gently rests her taut calf against your shoulder as you lower yourself.
“Oh fuck,” she moans as your labia press against hers. You don’t cry out yourself, but your eyes flutter closed as the warm, moist tenderness of her elemental flesh blends with yours. You hold perfectly still, luxuriating in the transcendence of your union. In your darkness, the sounds seep out of your world, until all that’s left is the feeling of her: her liquid heat, her softness. You could surrender now, let go completely, drown in her.
You’ve never known such intimacy.
You ache to be inside her.
“Oh fuck yes!” she gasps as you press a fraction more firmly against her, as you begin gently sliding your cunt across hers. Your clitoris – hard, swollen, once more greedy to be satisfied – sends out a burst of radiant pleasure that floods your loins, and you can’t stop yourself adding your own gasp to hers. You’re fucking her clitoris with yours. You can’t see it, but you can feel enough to know that it’s the truth; you’re fucking her clitoris with yours. The sensual thought, the images that accompany it, brings back that feeling of being able to swoon with the delectability of the moment.
“Oh yes! Oh yes!”
You keep your motions soft and fluid, never allowing your need to come, your hunger to bring her the climax she desires to quicken your pace or harshen your stroke. You look down at her face, watching her as her eyes follow your swaying breasts. She reaches up almost diffidently, cupping your breasts, moulding them to her delicate palms. She lightly pinches your hard nipples, sending a fresh burst of pleasure through your nerve endings.
You bite down on your lip to still your cry.
“No,” she says. There’s desperation, pleading in her voice. “Don’t hold it in. Let it go. Let me hear what you’re feeling.”
And so you let go. You sigh and you gasp and you moan with pleasure as your cunt slides across hers, and as you begin to come, you articulate the words that would otherwise have remained within your mind.
“Oh, it’s so … fucking … good!”
Your orgasm isn’t an eruption; it’s an explosion, a detonation measured in the megatons. Its power makes you shudder uncontrollably as wave after wave of implausible pleasure flood through you, and the thunderous, telltale cloud rises high into the air above, seemingly higher than it ever has before.
A semblance of sense, of sanity, seeps back to you. You realise that your lover hasn’t ascended all the way to the summit of her own peak, and so you continue to slip your sodden sex across hers, back and forth, back and forth, your clitoris fucking hers in the same, sensuous rhythm that carried you to your own climax, until her gasps of gratification stutter, until the expression frozen upon her face becomes a collision of pleasure and disbelief, and scarlet flowers bloom in her cheeks and across her chest.
Then she explodes too.
“Ohhhhhhhhh … my … GODDDDDDDDDDDD!”
You half-slide, half-collapse onto the bed beside her. You stare up at the ceiling, listening to the rapid thud of your heart gradually easing, your breathing becoming slower, deeper. You inhale deeply; the air is saturated with the scent of feminine desire. While you’re trying to think of something suitable to say, she finds her way to the punch line.
“That was wonderful.”
You nod. In the end, it’s all you need to do. It’s all you can do.
But even if you’re spent, she isn’t. She rolls towards you, and as she kisses you adroitly, she stretches an arm across you and then draws it back.
You see that she has your new strap-on in her hand.
“I want to fuck you,” she says. “I’ve been thinking about it for days.”
Again, all you seem capable of is nodding your accord.
You watch as she gets to her feet and steps into the harness, tightening the straps about her waist with composure. The vivid hue of the phallus is in striking contrast to the cream of her skin. There’s a small vial of clear oil on the nightstand, and she pours some into her palm then uses it to lubricate her phallus with flowing strokes.
“There,” she says, coming back to you. Your thighs part to admit her almost of their own volition.
She leans over you, her smile vulpine, triumphant.
The silicone is cool after the heat of her cunt. Slowly, the smooth head is stroked up and down your cleft, riding over your still-throbbing clitoris, gently probing the portal of your sex, back again, back again. You close your eyes, and images fill the darkness; your husband’s cockhead travelling along that very route, your hand around his thick shaft, guiding him, controlling him, using him as a tool for your pleasure. Coming against his burnished head once, twice, sometimes three times, and then pulling him inside you, desperate to be filled while your cunt still is still quivering.
The memories remind you that your husband is there, in the room, silent, watching. You look past her shoulder and see him approaching. He reaches around your lover, cupping her breasts in his hands, and you feel the gesture yourself, feel your hard nipples pressing familiarly into his palms. She smiles contentedly and her head goes back to rest against his shoulder. He dips his head, pressing his lips against the side of her neck, his dark eyes holding yours. And while they do, the head of the phallus nuzzles its way between your labia, and with a steady impulse, she eases it inside you to the hilt, filling you, making you cry out once more.
“Do you like that?” she asks you in a hushed voice.
“Yes.” Your voice sounds dreamy, detached.
Her thrusts are languid, sinuous; she pauses each time the phallus is fully inside you, allowing you to grind and rub yourself against the shaft, to press your clitoris against her loins. You can’t help but think that it’s not the first time she’s fucked another woman like this.
More wave of pleasure flow over you. She’s good. Very good.
She pauses, turns to look at your husband. “Do you like it? Do you like watching me fuck your wife?”
“I do. Very much.”
The tone of her voice alters, becoming petite, girlish, needy. “Will you fuck me while I fuck her?”
His answering smile seems every bit as wily and exultant as hers.
He reaches down the front of his body.
She smiles shamelessly. “You can’t see what he’s doing, can you?” she asks you.
“He’s hard again.” She gasps. “Oh, he’s thrusting his cock between the cheeks of my arse. It feels so good, so thick.”
Her words invoke more memories; you sprawled face down on a rumpled bed, your husband laying over you, his hard cock thrusting along the oiled crevice between your buttocks, slow to begin with, a little faster with each passing minute. One of his hands on your breasts while your own hand snakes beneath your belly, your fingers reaching for your clitoris, strumming it frantically as you feel his body tense against you, as you feel the wetness of his climax pooling in the small of your back.
Your lover begins to thrust inside you once more.
“Now he’s drawing his cockhead downwards,” she groans. “Mmmm, I can feel it against the lips of my pussy. Oh, he’s teasing me now, tracing it around the very edges! Bastard. If I begged him to fuck me now, he wouldn’t, I know, I can tell.” She licks her lips. “Does he tease you like this? Does he make you want to beg to feel his cock filling you? Oh, he’s good at it, isn’t he? Gorgeous bastard!”
You nod, your eyes flitting between her face and his, watching, waiting.
He teases her for what seems an age, even to you. His gaze narrows at the instant he finally decides to give her what she craves.
“Oh fuck! Oh yes!” she gasps. She doesn’t need to. You can feel him enter her through her cock. He begins to thrust into her as she continues to thrust into you, his movements communicated to you by the phallus within you.
Each one of his strokes magnifies hers.
Such a feat of co-ordinated carnality isn’t meant to last for long; you understand that. You suspect that they do too. The languid fluidity of their strokes quickly degenerates into a frenzy of fucking, as she thrusts the phallus into you, propelled by his voracious prick.
“I’m coming!” she soon cries out. “Oh fuck, I’m coming!”
She drives into you desperately, grinding herself against the base of the phallus, and her flushed face contorts in a blend of anguish and ecstasy. At the same time, your own climax – smaller, much less consequential than the one you shared solely with her – rolls through you. A few seconds later, your husband throws back his head and joins the two of you in completion. There’s a warm splash against the cheeks of your arse. It can only be his semen. Did he withdraw from her before he came, or partway through? Did he share his come, or save it all for you?
Fresh thoughts of his seed inside her carry you back to the beginning, back to where your desire and your discomfort seemed irrevocably linked. Both your lovers join you upon the bed, collapsing on either side of you, their warm hands finding your face, your breasts, your thighs. You stare at the ceiling, enjoying the caresses, trying to sort the feelings of revelry and regret flowing through you.
Yes, the world is a confusing place. And far more so today.