u/AllHandsOnBex

Image 14

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I walked into the gallery not knowing what to expect. I had never been to one with such a heavy content warning on the advertisement. And a lengthy set of rules, provided in advance with my ticket, which I also had to sign at the door. But maybe that is the norm for a touring collective of performance artists. No one else in the packed entryway seemed bothered.

The printed guide repeated the rules in block letters with a bolded red notice that additional rules and instructions may be posted at the installations. While most of the crowd drifted toward the section marked “less explicit”, I started on the other end to avoid them. Also, I was curious.

This side was nearly empty, except a young woman standing blank-faced in the center of a large room. She was striking. In her bright yellow shirt and floor-length pleated navy skirt. In her long black hair. In her sharp-featured face. In her stillness. In her ignorance of the handful of attendees filtering past her.

I neared the opening of the room, finally able to read the sign beside her from just outside.

”CUM ON ME.”
”Do not talk or touch or otherwise engage.”

I recoiled at the demand, but assured myself that must be the point. The statement is in the posing of a moral dilemma. My thoughts stopped in their tracks when I noticed the dark spots on her skirt, on the bottom of her shirt.

Wet spots.

With bated breath, doing my best to non-chalantly remain behind the cover of the wall, I watched as a man stepped up to her. His attention moved from her to the sign and back again. He looked around the room, his hands fidgeting in front of himself.

He was masturbating. Right in front of her, just inches away.

Though otherwise discreet, the motion of his shoulder gave him away. When he threw his head back, it was undeniable. Her expression remained unchanged, her posture unflinching, as he finished on her skirt.

As he walked away, my eyes followed. It felt less rude than continuing to stare at her. His gait was slightly hurried, but not obviously so, and his eyes darted away from any contact with others.

My need to understand brought my attention back to her. The man’s participation remained evident in a white streak and several drops already losing their sheen and turning dark as the fabric soaked them up. The pure lewdness of the scene had its hooks in me. I pulsed with titillation beyond the intellectual.

I stepped closer, now just inside the room’s opening, but at least a dozen steps from her. At most, my movement was visible in her periphery, but I was confident my presence would fade into the surroundings and I’d soon be forgotten.

Another man arrived at her station. He was younger and less contemplative. Less apologetic in his progression, in his gawking while he pleasured himself. Less restrained in his aggressive technique. I judged him as he left, but his derisive chuckle at her sent my pulse racing.

Dopamine flooded me as the meaning finally clicked.

Her statement was about the male gaze–the way men see women as objects to be lusted over, to elicit their own pleasure. I didn’t love the fact that I was part of that, despite the distance and lack of actual gratification. At least it got me thinking, which was the point, right?

Minutes passed without any new participants to distract me from my self-judgment. As if to prompt more attention, she shed her skirt and laid it flat on the floor beside her, stain-side up.

The cycle continued, with men more eagerly approaching–presumably drawn in by her bare legs. They’d come and go like before, leaving pearlescent streaks on her yellow shirt or aqua underwear or dripping down her skin. Whenever the crowd surged, I took the opportunity to slink closer. When attention ebbed, she lowered her underwear an inch at a time.

Once her underwear reached mid-thigh, there were more men lurking, seemingly waiting to see just a bit more before they can no longer hold back and must indulge. They craned their necks for a glimpse of what they wanted to see, the last inches of the sweetness between her legs that remained unseen.

I scolded them as savages. Leches. Takers. All while conveniently excluding myself from the class. I told myself I was different for grasping the message, but to her, I was indistinguishable from them. Deservedly so. Maybe I was worse for enjoying the sight of it from a comfortable distance, still, I was close enough to hear the last man’s breath stutter and witness his emission arc across her belly.

The facade of my detachment had crumbled. I was part of this. Though I clung to the virtue of restraint, it was a hollow sort of superiority, an intellectual excuse for my own lust.

Lower, her underwear went. Soaked. Heavy. Dangling between her knees.

I wonder where her smile came from and when it arrived. The fact that I had missed it landed like yet another indictment.

An older man, well-dressed and distinguished-looking, crossed the room toward her and promptly unzipped. He got to work on himself quickly. Eagerly. I watched him grit his teeth. I watched his eyes crawl up and down her so many times, I could rank her every part by his affinity.

I listened to the thwap of skin gripped tightly and pulled to its extents. The noises in his throat.

I knew when he was about to finish and tried to guess whether he was a shooter, a dribbler, or something in between. I even wondered how much there would be. Its consistency. Texture.

I wondered how it all felt for her–beyond the looming greedy gaze, the man’s lust-fueled exertion, the anticipation of his seed landing on cloth or skin. Maybe she was wondering all the same things I was, though nothing about her appearance showed it.

His throat rattled. A sizable white streak shot across the narrow space between them, landing with a wet plop across her belly. Another, then another followed, splashing against her mound, mingling with their innumerable predecessors and dragging them further down her body. Toward the glassy strings lined her thighs. Toward the pool collecting in the gusset of her underwear. Toward the tops of her feet, dotted in dribbles and drops.

My eyes remained fixed on her. Together, we listened to the footfalls of his overpriced shoes on the tile as he walked away like nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just jerked himself off on a woman in public. As if she wasn’t covered in the evidence that he had been the hundredth to do so tonight.

The shock is visceral. I hear my pulse pounding in my ear. And I feel it throbbing in my pants.

Lust. Guilt. Shame. I’m awash in complicated feelings. I’m awash in her message.

“You can say hi, you know. I’m done–well, almost–I guess–if you make it quick.”

It takes me a full minute to register that she’s talking to me and we’re alone.

The lights have dimmed.

It’s so quiet that I can hear her feet adjusting on the tile.

A bead of sweat rolls slowly between my shoulder blades.

“You looked like you were waiting for your turn for hours. Last chance…”

My eyes look everywhere but where they’d spent those hours. I can’t bear the sight of so much semen. Worse yet, her exposed body, coated in it. Her face–all bright smile and big blue eyes I mumble vigorously under my breath, “Oh, no, no, I’m not… no.”

“It would be fine, you know, that’s the whole point.”

“I don’t think I could, well… I could. I know I could, which actually makes me feel a little uncomfortable. I think that was the point though. Right?” I summon the strength to look at her, though only in momentary glances from the corner of my eye.

“Was it?” she says with a direct glare.

“Given the statement. Of your piece.”

“Which is?”

My chest tightens. My stomach turns. Performance anxiety. “The… male… gaze…?”

“Say more.”

I stumble into my breakdown–both meanings fully intended–unspooling a wild stream of words into the air, barely stopping to take half a breath so I can continue for a few more and get my racked thoughts out of my own head, no matter how clumsy the delivery.

It’s an act of absolution for me, but it must sound like pure madness to her, no matter how close it was to her true intent.

She doesn’t say a word. Not a sound. Not a nod. It’s my turn for the reactionless treatment she had given all her participants, only now she is re-dressing herself in her soiled clothes, barely bothering to wipe her skin down first.

I’m aghast, exhausted from my rambling, that my words fail entirely. It’s been a long time since I was this uncomfortable with a woman. Her art succeeds.

“Counterpoint…” she says, turning toward the exit. Her words dance from over her shoulder, and she immediately walks away, “Maybe I just found an excuse to get naked and spunked-on in public.”

Image 3

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“Ok, yeah, I can get you that update by, mid-day tomorrow?”

“End of day today would be better,” my vice president’s voice crackles in my headset. Why do they always have the worst work-from-home setups?

“Uhhh, let me see.” I glance at my calendar, ensuring my laptop camera catches me squinting and feigning consideration. My phone vibrates on my desk and I see a notification from Tia; I don’t have to open it to know what she wants. “I can probably do that, yeah.”

The video call turns black and I toss my headset onto my desk.

I take a lap around my condo to do the usual. With an hour before my next meeting, I know I should get started on that update, but the notification sitting on my phone screen makes me restless.

She knows what it will do to me; in fact, she’s depending on it, sitting in the sublet upstairs that she splits with a couple of friends.

I met her one afternoon a few months ago, when I was in the lobby to pick up a package and she was waiting there for her morning coffee to arrive. She keyed on the fact that I was around during the day and finagled my phone number from me “just in case she has a coffee emergency and needs my machine”.

Let’s be honest though. She didn’t need to try.

She is exactly my type–tall, thick, and comfortable being seen in very little. Her tank top made no secret of the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra–I probably could have picked her nipples out of a police line-up, if such a thing existed–and her 80s-style gym shorts couldn’t dream of ever reaching the underside of her butt. Even straight from her bed, she looked hot and she knew it.

The first message I got from her was a day or two later–a Saturday, I think. It was a picture of her with a hint of a pout on her lips, her cleavage conveniently filling the bottom of the frame. I tried not to look too eager when I showed up at her door step with a fresh, hot cup of coffee 15 minutes later. When I left, the cup was lukewarm, full, and hadn’t moved from where she told me to set it.

The afternoon “just woke up” messages continued every few days–never before 1 pm and never after 3–and the pictures and accompanying text grew more direct every week. Soon, the “coffee emergency” ruse was abandoned altogether. I still brought her a cup, but I knew what she really wanted.

Today’s message was the clearest yet.

She looks like she slid face-first off the side of her bed wearing the same outfit she had on when I met her. Her tits spilling out of her tank top onto the floor. Ass high in the air, barely covered. “Just woke up… you wanna fuck??” the text asks.

Propositioning me was her bad habit.
Showing up at her door minutes later was mine.

The door to her place opens and her roommate is already retreating back to the kitchen. Her name is Cass, if I recall correctly. We never really talk, but we’re familiar enough in passing that I don’t flinch at her barely-dressed morning state. “Tia’s in her room. We should just get you a key. You’re here often enough.”

“Ha. Right. Yeah…” I say awkwardly, trying not to stare at the pierced nipples poking behind her shirt. Though she isn’t quite my type–a fit blonde with an assortment of visible ink–I’m still human and I definitely would.

Habit.

“Any chance I could bum a bowl of cereal? I have to go shopping, but I’d rather not go on an empty stomach.”

“Uh, sure?” I fish my keys out and toss them on the counter. “603. Help yourself.”

“Mind if I eat it there? Leave you two to do your thing?”

I can’t help but chuckle at the social conventions these two share. How unafraid they are of asking for any little thing from me makes me wonder if I’m just a sucker, but coffee and cereal would be such a pitiful hustle if that were the case. “Go ahead. You can hang out until I get back.”

“Appreciate it,” she replies with a happy bounce toward me and an abrupt peck on my cheek.

Tia’s bedroom is in the back, the 3rd of 4 total if I remember correctly. Her mismatched furniture, spray-painted in bright colors to hide that it’s vintage in the worst sense, clashes with the cold gray walls. Clothes sit strewn across the floor in little puddles that nearly connect. It smells like musky incense, which suits the overall vibe of the room. The whole space is practically a euphemism for the ongoing thing we have.

“Finally,” she says in her growly morning voice. She’s naked on her bed, a pillow under her hips, hands clasped behind her head. Her hair is its usual mess and her eyes are slivers over bags.

“Tough morning?” I tease.

“Tough night. Tough week. Tonight’ll be no better and if I don’t get fucked before I go, I am going to lose, my, shit.”

“I get you,” I say, my shoes and shirt already added to the mess on her floor. While I do understand the feeling, I frankly don’t know enough about her life to understand where it’s coming from. I can only offer the most superficial acknowledgement as I make my way to her. “It’s rough out there.”

Her hand finds mine and pulls me closer. “Pump me good and make me forget about it for a bit.”

“That I can do,” I say, leaning in to kiss her, my hand already attempting to palm one big tit. “Just pump and go?”

“I’m way too tired for anything else.”

Half on top of her, my leg sitting between her thighs, I plant a row of kisses down her neck. “Because having your pussy eaten is soooo taxing.”

Tia flashes a lazy smirk. “Keep it quick. And go easy–a hard cum would put me out for the afternoon, I think, and I’ve got shit to do before work. I haven’t even showered yet.”

My mouth is halfway down her torso by the time she finishes her sentence. Her skin is salty. Smokey. There’s a hint of too-sweet lotion. The implication that she hasn’t showered since yesterday “morning” goes to work inside my body. There’s a lurid rawness in it that turns me on for reasons I don’t understand, and the lower I go, the more of it I find.

The triangle of bush that sits above her mound is where her scent grows more complex. The skin below it is tacky. Musty. More profound in the response it elicits from my body. This is what I crave when I ask to go down on her. I imbibe it in deep breaths and long, slow licks until she starts making pleasant little mewls and I grow convinced that this time, she’ll finally let me sate myself.

Then she taps my shoulder. Slides a condom into my hand. Says those hot words that slightly disappoint.

“I just really need to get fucked. Sorry.”

I have no reason to complain that she wants it so badly, so expediently. I’m afraid to question why she places more priority on my orgasm than hers, for fear of the answer. So I don’t ask.

I dutifully put the condom on, sitting back on my heels so I can enjoy the full view of her body and thank my lucky stars for such providence. As I move between her legs and my chest squishes her tits flatter than gravity alone can, she wraps me tight in arms and legs. As lazy as she often claims to be, she’s never a passive lover.

The pillow under her ass puts her in the perfect spot for me to slide in. She’s plenty wet–as always–though she feels exceptionally tight today. Breath rasps in her throat as I push deeper to fill her.

My hands move to the backs of her thighs and squeeze them tight, enjoying their thickness. They feel like luxury, like comfort as they tighten around my hips in pleasant reply.

My hips push hard and hers grind back. On every thrust, she looses a sharp breath, her tits ebb and flow like tidal waves in the space between us. More and more, the faster and harder I go. She begins to purr, a throaty sort of hum rather than anything overtly feline. My body smacks against hers, sending unambiguous echoes off the walls and ripples through her.

The way she tastes and smells, the way she feels and sounds, the way she moves, is why she’s a habit I’m not inclined to break, even if I probably should. This sort of thing can’t be healthy for either of us, but this is no time to think about it. Not with my balls slapping her underside and her hot breath on my ear, one set of fingernails clawing my shoulder while the other digs into my left butt cheek.

Groaning, she rocks her hips to my rhythm, lengthening my strokes. I can feel my tip stretching her at every apex. The chubbiness of her bits is all that saves us from bruising our pelvises with our vigor. My teeth graze her neck then sink in, but stop short of anything that could leave a mark.

My release wells up quickly, the pressure building as her tongue flicks over my ear.
She clenches–three short bursts followed by a long one that holds for several strokes.
It’s so tight, so fucking tight.
So tight, I can feel every ridge and bump of her texture around me.
More than coaxing my finish.
Demanding it.

I bury myself in her. My cock in her pussy. My hips in her thighs. My head in her neck. My body is fully in her grasp.

And I let go.

“Good boy,” she says, sounding as satisfied as I feel.

I pull out, but linger on top of her while the sensation settles. Looking in her eyes, I tell her, “You’re so fucking sexy and you feel unfairly good.”

She lets herself smile, but she rolls her eyes away from mine. “Thank you. And you’re welcome.”

It doesn’t take me long to catch my breath, and without any pleasantries, I’m off the bed and getting dressed. “Anything else you need?”

“Start the shower for me on your way out?” Rolling onto her side to face me, she already looks more awake.

“Can do,” I offer from the doorway. “Have a wonderful rest of your day.”

I hear her snort as I’m leaving.

When I turn the corner, her other roommate–nameless to me–is there in a zip-up hoodie, jeans, and sneakers. “You seen Cass?”

I don’t feel like explaining that she was enjoying a quiet breakfast at my place while I was banging her roommate. “Oh, she popped out for a few. She’ll be back soon.”

She moves on toward her room with a nod and I start the shower on my way out.

I knock on my own door, which feels abundantly strange. I hear water running inside, a clink, then it stops. The door cracks open shortly after, and once again, I see Cass retreating to a kitchen as the door swings wider.

“Your keys are on the table. I need a minute.” Standing at the sink, she restarts the tap and scrubs a pot. Her small butt jiggles in her underwear with the motion of her arm. Did she really come down here in just that and her clingy tee? These girls are a wonder. “Your place is super nice, by the way.”

I approach the kitchen, but remain at a comfortable distance. The fact that I stop where I have a full view of her, bed-head to bare feet, is entirely coincidental. “Thank you. You don’t have to–”

“I felt bad dirtying your dishes, and figured why not do the rest.” Her voice has a happy chirp to it. “I can let myself out when I’m done, if you have stuff to do.”

“Yeah. I should, I have work. To do.” I shift in place, starting to feel like a creep for watching a barely-dressed near-stranger doing my dishes, regardless of how unbothered she seems. “Thanks for doing those. You didn’t have to. But thanks.”

“I don’t mind dishes. It’s stupid how bummed I was about us being out of cereal, but,” she says, turning toward me with a big smile, her hands flaring out from her shoulders, “all better now!”

I know her gesture was intended like a flourish in a magic show, but my eyes fixate on the tits nicely framed by her arms and the way they bounced when she turned. Her backside rests against the counter, wet spots adorning her tee, a bright smile on her face. Eyes locked on me.

I want things that I shouldn’t. Tia is already too much of a good thing. Too much of a bad thing.

“I’m going to go get back to work, but, uh, glad I could help, and, um, thanks again.”

“No, thank you.” She bounces toward me like she did at her place, her fingers land on my waist and she leans in to kiss my cheek. It’s a little wetter, a little firmer, a little longer than it should be. Then just as quickly as she bounded toward me, she heads for the door. “I’ll bring you your new box later when I get home from the store. Anything else you want me to pick up? A treat as a token of my appreciation?”

“You’ve done plenty.”

“You’re still getting a new box,” she asserts with a glare as she slips out the door.

It shuts before I can argue.

I make it to my desk with a minute to spare. Headset on. Meeting joined.
It's a bore, but it gives me a chance to start that update I owe.
Tia’s scent is still delightfully in my head.
My body is pleasantly relaxed from our rendezvous.
Peaceful, my mind loses itself in the work and the rest of the afternoon flies by.
I’m vaguely aware of a new notification on my phone, but it can wait. I’m almost done.

When I send off my update, it’s nearly 7 and I grumble to myself a little.

I click the notification without really looking.

Habit.

Image 8

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Gina’s evening started with a luxurious bath.

Her husband and his friends were settled in the basement for a game night. She didn’t typically mind these nights–they were an important social outlet and one of the few opportunities for him to cut loose–but their house was kid-free tonight, a rare treat that she had been looking forward to for weeks. He promised he’d keep the game short to ensure they’d have their enjoyment of it. And each other–another rarity these days.

Curled up in bed, she kept herself on-edge for hours anticipating his arrival. She waited until she couldn’t anymore. Every outburst from the basement pushed her closer to action. If she wanted satisfaction, she had to demand it before it got any later.

Stepping out of bed in her sheer robe, she rehearsed what she’d say, trying to find the words and tone that would telegraph her feelings without sounding too harsh. Something that implied her plans without revealing them to a room full of people she barely knew. She wanted to rouse her husband, not make him feel bad.

“–you stumble upon a mysterious orb, glowing from beneath the underbrush. What do–”

“Do you have any idea what time it is? Come to bed already” she announced to the room. She hated to embarrass him in front of his friends like this, calling him out, her robe and the shadows at the bottom of the stairs doing little to hide her body.

“Oh, shit… sorry… we’re still not quite done. We… ran into some hiccups in our quest.”

She rolled her eyes and was halfway up the stairs when she heard one of his friends.

“Good god, bro, go up there. We can pack up and get out of here.”

Her husband sounded insistent. “No, it’s fine. She’ll be fine. We’re almost done.”

“If you don’t do it, I will. Seriously.”

The whole table laughed before a voice she recognized took a sharper jab.

“No kidding. You’re my guy and all, but… I mean… your wife. Wow. I would f–”

“You would what?” Gina asked, her voice echoing down the stairs and through the basement.

The guys fell silent.

They heard every creak as she came down again and appeared from around the corner.

She repeated herself in a more provocative tone. “You would what?”

Around the table, there was a chorus of nervous swallowing and shuffling of feet. Their eyes all remained transfixed on the game pieces in front of them, while seeing none of their detail.

“Hun… we were just wrapping up.”

“No need. Keep going,” she said dismissively.

Her head turned slightly, her tone changing. “Except you, Brett. You’re coming with me and we’ll see just what you would.”

The men exchanged looks ranging from confusion to terror. Brett looked embarrassed as he scooted his chair back, hanging his head as if he’d just been pulled from class for a trip to the principal.

Gina put her arm around him and led him up the stairs, her voice echoing back, “Have fun with your boys. I know I will.”

When they reached the top of the stairs and turned into the kitchen, she decided to come clean. “I’m sorry if that was awkward for you. I promised him something special after game night. I hoped making him wait for it, knowing what I was doing upstairs, would drive him crazy. Only I broke first.”

Gina sighed as she leaned back on the counter, watching the stairs for any sign of life.

“It’s fine. I get it,” Brett said with a laugh.

“And when you spoke up, it gave me another opportunity. A better one. Something for him to really think about. Maybe we can talk about it? On the patio?”

“Ok. Sure.”

“Right out there. Go make yourself at home.”

Brett followed her gesture and the screen door rattled shut behind him. As she reached into the fridge for a couple of beers, she tipped her head toward the stairs to listen in on the rest of the crew.

It sounded like they were playing again, as if her outburst of horny rage and absconding with one of their crew was no big deal.

If so, she was happy to play along.

---

Beers in hand, she joined Brett on the patio, sitting a little too close and making no effort toward modesty.

“I’m not bothered by what you said, for the record. Whether you really meant it or not, it was very nice to hear. It gave me a much-needed spark after feeling neglected all evening.” Gina’s expression and sultry tone made her subtext clear. “Left to my own devices with real satisfaction nowhere in sight.”

“You’re welcome then.”

“You realize they’re going to think you’re all talk if you don’t come back with a story. You had better think of something to tell them. Then we can decide how much of it will be true.”

Brett shifted in his seat. “What do you mean?”

With an unconcerned shrug, she shrugged, taking a sip of her beer.

“I’m not sure I feel comfortable telling your husband I fucked you,” he said with some trepidation. “If that’s what you’re implying.”

“So don’t.”

“Making out? Is that too little?”

Gina laughed. “Probably.”

“Ok, so, a handjob then?”

“If that’s what you want.”

He paused. “You think he’ll buy it?”

“That’s what you’re thinking about? Him buying it?” Gina couldn’t miss the bulge in his pants. “I’m more interested in what the truth will be.”

---

Gina smirked, staring at the row of half-empty beers left abandoned on the coffee table. One for every guest who visited her on the patio and returned to game night with a story; each sending back the next lucky man when they finished telling their tale.

First Brett. Then Ty. Pavel. Jason. Dez.

The last set of footsteps approached from behind her.

“I thought we were keeping those worlds separate,” he said, taking the still-warm spot next to her on the couch.

“And I thought you were coming to bed hours ago. You got your game night. I got mine.”

“And my friends.”

“You don’t think they had fun?” She turned, stretching her legs over his lap and reclining against the arm. “I think they’ll be back every week whether there’s a game night or not. They’ll clear their schedules for your invitations.”

“You think they won’t tell anyone?”

“What? The same stories they shared with their boys over the table? Who would believe them? Other than you.”

“Are you telling me you didn’t do all those things? I know you too well to believe that.”

“If you want to know,” she said with a sultry glare, “you’ll have to be more specific. I have no idea what they told you.”

“Hrmph,” he grumbled roughly.

Propping her knee against the back of the couch, her foot pressed flat on his lap, feeling the growing heat through layers of cotton.

“Your lips look especially pink. Too pink to be just excitement.”

“Wait until you see what’s inside them,” Gina purred, sliding one leg off his lap to put a foot on the floor. The other went to his shoulder on the opposite side, giving him a better view between her thighs. The position parted her enough to feel the night air on her wetness, and her fingers spread her rosy lips the rest of the way. A glob of white, glinting in the moonlight, sat perched in her entrance. “Guess who.”

His eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, and his lips pressed together. “I don’t want to know.”

“And I won’t tell you. I just want you to guess.”

His eyes blew wide as gravity stretched the blob, revealing how much of it there was, now making a slow descent down her skin. “Jesus…”

“He had nothing to do with it, trust me.” Her finger swiped at the trailing edge and brought it to her mouth. She smacked her lips with a devilish look in her eyes. “That’s what you get for keeping me waiting. Now what are you going to do about the fact that you still owe me a long night of sex? Going to add yours to the mix or did it all get a little too real for you?”

“They didn’t satisfy?”

“The point of the appetizer was to hold me over and it did, but only just barely. I’m growling for my main dish.”

He kissed her ankle, still resting on his shoulder, and slid his hand down her thigh. “Don’t think that I’m over what you did.”

“I’m not asking you to be.”

Shifting toward her, kissing her calf, then her knee, he glanced over to catch her eyes. “You are enjoying this too much.”

“Don’t pretend you hate the idea of me being a slut for your friends.”

His lips reached her inside of her thigh. “These friends are different.”

“They sure were. Don’t you want to know how?”

Pushing her sheer robe out of the way, he leaned closer to kiss her hip, her belly. “Not really.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be that way. Not wanting to hear details doesn’t stop you from thinking about them. Wondering.”

He raised an eyebrow as he reached her tits and closed his mouth around one nipple. As he swirled his tongue, his gaze remained steady on her eyes.

“You don’t want to know if any of them are packing heat?”

His teeth closed around her nipple and she hissed.

“Who did what to me. What I did to them. Who made me cum. How hard.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling their hips tight. He sucked harder in response, pinching her other nipple between his fingers.

“How they felt. How they tasted. Who knows what I taste like. The sounds I make.”

Taking his head in her hands, her thumbs hooked under his jaw, she lifted his face and held it inches from hers so she could watch it react.

“Where they came. On me. In me.”

His face closed the distance quickly, kissing her if only to shut her up. Her hands slid between them to undo his pants and pull them off his hips, then moved quickly to grab his cock and pull it to her wet slit. Her heels pulled him the rest of the way into her.

“Bet you’re wondering who it was that got me warmed up for you. Which of your friends has enough cock to stretch me like that?”

He growled against her neck as his hips snapped against her.

“You can feel it, can’t you?”

The couch skittered on the wood floor under a frenzy of rapid, brutal pumps. Again, she pulled his face up, this time by his hair.

“Now you’re wondering just how many loads you’re fucking out of me and where the others went.”

“AHH!” he growled, wrapping one hand over her shoulder, his thumb pressing her collarbone, his other hand sending three fingers into her mouth. Her eyes rolled back and moans sent spittle over his knuckles and the back of his hand.

Hands clasping the back of his head, she bucked her hips to his rhythm, their breathing turning heavy.

“Unnnnhhhh, uh I ah. Ehhhhhhh! Uh!” she exclaimed around his fingers.

His thrusting stopped on a dime. His hips clapped hard, slow punctuations, matched with a sharp breath and a spurt of heat inside her. When his fingers withdrew from her mouth, she was smiling wide, eyes half-lidded.

Disheveled, he slumped back in his seat, licking his lips. “You definitely had too much fun tonight.”

“I did, yeah. I love how worked up you get. Like you’re angry that you can’t contain yourself. And then you take it out on me. Mmmmm.” She couldn’t help but chuckle in satisfaction. “How about you? Have fun tonight?”

“It was really good to see them. Quest was fun, but they kept doing the dumbest things, like they were trying to drag it out. I told them I was expecting it to be short, that it would be an early night. I didn’t tell them why, of course. I got so tense thinking about you upstairs waiting. I kept wanting to tell them to stop being so fucking stupid and finish… so I could… come up and… fuck… you…”

He shot her a glare so sharp, it was unmistakable in its accusation.

“You! You put them up to it, didn’t you?”

She held her hands in the air. “I told you I played my own game.”

Looking bewildered, he stumbled trying to give voice to his thoughts. “I– You– But– That would have– And– But– How?”

With a smug pat on her own back, she flashed an eyebrow. “It was easy enough. I just told them to give you a hard time and slow everything down. I don’t think they even realized what I was doing, to be honest. And definitely not why. None of them knew I’d come down and drag them off. For sure none of them expected what came after that.”

“Oh, I’m sure none of them expected that.”

“So when are we doing this again?”

“We? Game night?”

“Yeah. I figure, after that I’m as much a host as you are.”

“Three weeks,” he said, voice tinged with dread.

“Hm. Plenty of time to prepare.”

“Care to include me in your planning this time?”

“I was thinking I might not bother taking them out to the patio. What do you think about that?”

Image 1

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He said it just before he snapped his wrist, “Last one. For luck!”

I’d gotten better at catching the ensuing foil-wrapped projectile in my short time living with Stephen.

“Thanks?” I said, as I always did when closing my palms around the condom he had so-casually flicked at me. I leaned across my bed and added it to the pile in my nightstand drawer, once again wondering the purpose of this ritual. I couldn’t help but think it came as some kind of judgment of my chastity.

Everyone was chaste compared to Stephen, of course. The bathroom that sat between our rooms had a way of acting like an echo chamber for every noise the thin walls let through, so I was as familiar as anyone with his–errr–vibrant lifestyle.

Every week, I found myself bumping into some new girl he’d brought home, with plenty of repeat guests in between. I never particularly minded, and I had gotten pretty used to it by now. The same can be said for happening upon those same girls around town. Most of them are friendly and I’ve rarely heard a complaint about Stephen, so whatever he’s doing must be alright.

Next in the chastity rankings were our other roommates, Donna and Andy. Admittedly, their placement in the middle was an educated guess on my part. Both had stable relationships and spent a lot of their nights at their respective partners’ places. Whatever they did at our house was discrete enough that I rarely noticed it, though I assumed it happened with some regularity.

And then there was little old me, all the way at the far end of the chastity spectrum (and somewhere near the middle of a different spectrum, though I’m unsure how relevant that is–it would explain a few things, but the reasoning is as thin as it is unsatisfying).

I had never had sex.

That’s not to say I didn’t have a thriving sex life with myself, or wasn’t curious about extending it to others. I simply never had the option. I wasn’t sure how I even could create the option.

Wait.

Was that what Stephen was doing when he tossed condoms at me?

I scrambled across my bed and reached into my nightstand, pulling handful after handful of condoms out, spreading them over my comforter. I don’t know what I was looking for–some kind of clue or maybe an outright message that I’d missed–but I got distracted by the variety.

Ribbed. Lubricated. Studded. Ultra-thin. Sensitive. Performance. Real skin.

And the colors! The sizes!

I must have had several boxes worth of each of the common ones, which felt like a whole lot for someone who had no means of using them, but I was no less fascinated at the collection of latex I’d amassed.

Just as I started sorting them into neat lines for easier counting, Stephen paused outside my door. He stared at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Big night planned?”

“No?”

“I’m just teasing. The way you have them all… laid out.”

“Oh!” I laughed, embarrassed at the sight of it as much as my own silliness. “I was curious. I didn’t realize I had so many. Maybe you should have them back. There are so many and they’d get more use in your hands than sitting here in my nightstand.”

“They’re single-use. And never for my hand.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course. I’m just wondering why I have them.”

“What do you mean?” Stephen leaned against the doorframe, holding a bowl of something he’d grabbed from the kitchen.

“When you give them to me, are you– is that– are you… asking…? If so, I have to apologize because I was not understanding that, and I’ve just been rude about never giving you an answer.”

“No, they were just the last one in each box. The lucky one.”

“What makes it lucky?”

Stephen set his bowl on the edge of my tiny desk and stepped closer. “You have to make the last one count. Once you use it, all you have is luck–maybe they have another one, or maybe you don’t use one and you both cross your fingers, hoping the luck from the last one saves you.”

“You don’t buy more before you run out?”

“Usually, yes.”

“So it’s not really your last one. And you don’t even use it anyway because you give them all to me?”

“Not all, but yeah, most of them. I wanted you to have a lucky one if– or, when– you decided you might need it.”

The ritual still made no sense to me. But his explanation showed a certain care that warmed my heart. It was a more loving gesture than I expected from someone I had only known for a year.

I bounced off my bed and sprung toward Stephen to wrap him in an enthusiastic hug. “Thank you for that.” As I let him go before it got too awkward, and slinked back toward my bed, I added, “If it’s ok, I think I’ll keep them.”

“Of course,” he said, taking his bowl in his hands before turning toward his room. “Just check the expiration before you use them.”

Expiration. Like fruit. Having fruit is a commitment. There exists an obligation to consume them before their expiration.

My eyes scoured the wrappers, finding the dates so my fingers could sort them within each neat column. Ascending made sense for storage. Closest deadlines sitting on the top of each stack, like products in a store.

I had 28 months to use the first one, which felt reassuring, and only 37 months to get to the luckiest of luckies. It sounded like such a long time but there were so many condoms. And that’s after figuring out how to do the impossible task of getting someone into my bedroom. Or me into theirs.

It would be nothing for Stephen, of course. He was obviously good at getting people into his–each of my surplus of luckies resulted from him using a whole box. At best, assuming he only bought the smallest boxes, that number was staggering. I couldn’t imagine what it would be if he was smart enough to buy in bulk.

Damn, Stephen. You go.

I knew it was silly to think about my stash this way, but maybe the subtle nudge of a ticking clock was what I needed at that point in my life. And the gesture of support from Stephen made me feel like I could actually do this–if I wanted, which was the aspect I continued to grapple with.

I realized I did want it when one night before bed, my fingers were dangling over the edge of my barely-opened nightstand drawer, feeling the shape of the top-most condom through its wrapper. I snatched it from the drawer and put it on top of my nightstand so I could watch my fingers trace its shape.

Index finger making slow loops, my mind did the same. I imagined it unfurling on a man’s erection–any man’s–feeling latex on my skin, and how he would feel to my touch. The thoughts grew hotter, spiraling out of control, and so did my body. Fortunately, my trusty vibrator satisfied. It always does.

In the morning, I left the condom on my nightstand and doubled-down, selecting a second one to carry in my bag. Its presence allowed my newfound excitement to follow me around town, errand after errand, store by store. Fantasies and hope. Anything was possible.

It took further weeks of thought before I was ready to make something happen for myself. I weighed my options, considered the outcomes. And I made my choice.

Saturday afternoon, I was sitting on the edge of my bed, nervously fidgeting with my chosen lucky. The fact that I’d stared at it so many times didn’t take my eyes off its shiny chrome wrapper and red letters: MAXX Luxury Ultra-Thin with REAL-FEEL. This was the one.

“How’s it going in there?” Stephen asked from the hall, craning his neck toward my room.

Seeing my downcast look and closed posture, he approached the doorway. “You alright?”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, trying to swallow my nerves with a too-dry mouth. “You can come in.”

“Oh, whatcha got there?”

“It’s the one that expires soonest. One of them, but I liked this one best.”

He stepped closer, catching a glance of it as it moved in my fingers. “Those are good.”

“Yeah, I figured you liked them because I had a bunch.”

“So…” he prompted, but my hand shot out toward him before he could elaborate. “What for?”

My cheeks burned as my eyes shifted to meet his. I wagged my hand for emphasis. “Um… Want to?”

I felt like I left my body as I waited for his response. His eyes carefully analyzed me. My eyes, my expression, every bit of body language possible, to avoid any possible misreading. “Are you sure?”

“Mhm!” I chirped.

Stephen sat beside me, his face closer than it had ever been. His eyes sunk deep into mine. His hand lighted on my thigh just above my knee. “With me?”

“Stephen–”

I let my thoughts stream out.

“I know you better than I’ve known any other guy. I trust you. You’re so nice to me. So supportive and understanding. The girls who have been here have only great things to say about you. They keep coming back, which means you are probably good at it too, I mean, you do have a lot of experience. You seem like the right one for this.”

“But that’s just sex.”

“That’s all this is too. I want to have sex. Just sex. With you.”

“If we do, then won’t it be weird? Living together? Me bringing around other girls?”

“No weirder than it is now. I don’t really mind it.”

He paused, his face twisting slightly. “I feel like–I don’t know–I should at least take you out first. Buy you dinner.”

“Why? I don’t think I’d want a full belly.”

“Your first time should be special though.”

I turned toward him, insistence on my face. “It being my first time should be special enough, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.” His head wobbled in acceptance and he huffed in disbelief. “You’ve obviously thought this through.”

“I have. Only a little, but, enough. So? What do you think?”

“Right now?”

“I’m ready, that’s all.” I smiled up at him, cheeks blushed and hands locked together in my lap.

“Ok, so, make out for a bit? Then we could try some hands? And then when you’re ready, if you’re still up for it, we could do it?”

“Oh no, no need, not for me. I’m ready.”

Stephen chuckled and shook his head. “Prepared and eager. I don’t know why I expected anything different. Should we just get naked then?”

“Sure!”

I don’t think I could have stripped any faster if my clothes were on fire. So fast that I doubt he even saw the sexy underwear I put on for him. Oops.

“Jesus! Your tits, girl!”

A pit formed in my belly. I always thought they were nice, although it’s hard to expect them to be perky at their size. “What about them?”

“I knew they were big, but wow, they’re something.”

He stared at them for a while before realizing how ambiguous his statement was. “They’re really sexy. I just never thought– You always keep them covered.”

“Maybe I won’t anymore. At least around you. If you like them that much.”

“I’d, yeah, I would not complain at all. I just–” He huffed. ”Who knew?”

He was still working his way out of his clothes–and still staring at my body–as I settled onto the bed, lying the “short” way across the middle of it with my feet toward him.

“You’re way sexier than I gave you credit for, you know. I always thought you were cute, adorable, or whatever, but no, you’re–” He paused as his eyes drifted. “Oh, you’re shaved.”

“Yeah.”

“For this?”

“No. Always. For me. It just feels better.”

At last, he joined me on the bed, sitting beside me with his legs folded. “It works for you. Really sexy. Can I?”

I bit my lip, trying to contain my eagerness, but it was apparent in my nodding. An exhale rushed out of me as his fingers slid over my mound and down my lips, one finger splitting them.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were ready.”

“Uh uh. I, um, had my, vibrator. Over my shorts. For a while.” The gentle strokes of his hand made forming cohesive thoughts a challenge. Then a new distraction arose. “May, may… I?”

“Please!”

I reached out my hand to touch him back. It wasn’t like I had never seen a dick–I’ve seen plenty of porn–but feeling one was new. I don’t know why I assumed that the first feel I’d get would be inside me. It had a pleasant, soft texture and felt like foam around steel–nothing like I’d expected–and its size was remarkably close to my trusty vibrator, only with rearranged proportions.

All I could think about was having it inside of me, wrapped in that lucky bit of latex I’d stroked through its package for weeks. “We can, uh, start.”

“Any preferences? Position, how you like to be touched, what not to say. Speed. Style…”

“You ask like I have anything to base it on.” I felt something inside me twinge, a much stronger version of a feeling I knew. “How about you just fuck me like you fuck those other girls? That seems to work out well for them.”

With a laugh, he pulled my leg toward him then moved his body into the empty space between my thighs. I caught him staring at his destination as he opened the condom’s wrapper, and I was rapt watching him unroll it down himself. I adored the way the latex made him shine and highlighted his shape, but before I had my fill of looking, he was on top of me, checking in to make sure I was comfortable.

That I still wanted this.

That I was ready for it.

Aside from having his body on top of me, and all my nerves firing in response to so much touch, the heat of him inside me was what I noticed most. I shouldn’t have been so surprised by it. The fullness felt more familiar, though it was different than my vibrator. The way it squished as the fullness ebbed and flowed. Where his angle put pressure. The points of sweet friction and the tickle of his pubes against my mound.

He was unexpectedly sweet about being slow and gentle. It didn’t match what I so-often heard through the walls of our place. But I let him continue to lead, and I began to understand what all the fuss was about.

It felt good.

By comparison, my vibrator–the much-vaunted champion of so many ladies’ bedrooms–should have been ashamed of itself.

I didn’t want to lie there and do nothing, but I also didn’t want to get too romance-y, so I mapped a safe region of his chest and shoulder for my lips to busy themselves. Similarly, my hands looked for a comfortable spot on his body and settled on his waist, where they could feel his core flexing through each thrust.

As he was a considerable bit taller than me, he mostly kissed the side of my head and nibbled the top of my ear a bit. The feeling of his breath made me shiver with warmth.

This was so much better than anything I ever did alone. The heat of another body, the unpredictability of what they’ll do, the ripple through your body and moment of weightlessness at the apex of each push. The sounds. The musky, heady smell that permeated the room. Yet, the newness of it all was so distracting that I struggled to find that familiar rise of tension and heat inside me.

And that was ok. This wasn’t about an orgasm. I didn’t ask for one–didn’t need one–I could have as many as I wanted later, on my own like I had been doing for years. I was good at that. Probably better than he could ever be.

His voice rasped against my hair, “I’m so close, so close, so close.”

I didn’t know what to say. I tipped my face toward his and tried to be affirming. “Good, yes. Please.” Kissing the corner of his jaw, I watched his cheeks scrunch and felt his jaw go slack. His hips tensed and pushed harder against mine.

He let out the most vulnerable noise I think I’ve ever witnessed. A groan that came out like a whimper sweetened with pleasure.

When he left my body, he didn’t go far. He curled himself against my side, his head on my chest, and his fingers returned to stroking my mound.

“You don’t have to,” I told him and meant it.

“Maybe I want to.”

“I suppose you can then,” I said just before his fingertip lit a fire in me. I tried to continue my thought regardless, a futile effort, “It’s just, I can, do that, mysel– Ohhhhhh, oh that’s– Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.”

My arms clutched around him, my hips frantic, following his touch. Up, down. A little harder. I could still see the agonized face he had when he made that hot little whimper. It was my turn now. To scrunch. To tense. To pant and squeal.

And then to apologize.

“Sorry for grabbing you like that. I don’t– normally, it’s my pillow or my comforter–”

“That’s what sex is. Doing what feels right. And sometimes your body does it for you.”

I exhaled hard, still catching my breath as I tried not to be awkward. “It felt very right. Not just at the end. All of it was really good.”

We shared a knowing little smile. A reassurance for the rainbow swirl of emotions flooding through me. Notably, regret wasn’t among them. Nor was doubt. It was all happy colors in my head. Warm ones inside my body.

“Thank you, Stephen.”

“Anytime.”

“You mean it? Any… time…?”

His gaze narrowed, inspecting me, maybe wondering what he had gotten himself into.

“I did offer to return that stash of luckies. Maybe you’d accept them one at a time?”

“That could work,” he said with the makings of a grin.

I felt my whole face light up. My body left the bed on a cloud of air. “Really?!”

“Yeah, silly.”

“They’re in my nightstand!” I said, already on my knees and halfway there.

“Oh, now?!”

I froze, filled with the dread of making such an assumption. “Or… whenever.”

“No, no, we totally can. I need a few minutes before that–again–but, you know, there’s plenty more we can do until then.”

I turned back toward him, my butt thumping on the comforter, the glow returning to my face. “Tell me where to start!”

Image 9

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The handsome guy in my Yoga class was eyeing me up again today.

He’s usually a few mats away, though no less keenly aware of how my body moves for the distance. Today he was next to me, destined to be my partner–no accident, surely.

Nervous and excited as I was, he was much worse off. His form lacked his usual confidence. His eyes stole glances rather than his usual glares. His hands hovered before making contact with me, then trembled slightly when they finally did.

Our exercises felt like foreplay. I nearly convinced myself he’d tug my tight pants down and bury himself inside me. Maybe his fingers, or maybe his cock.

I’m not particular when it comes to aesthetics or size, but I have spent an inordinate amount of time wondering what his looks like, and not just today. Thick, thin; long, short. Maybe a bulbous, meaty head and a foreskin that goes from flopping loose over the end to being stretched tight as he–

“You, um, want to, like, grab a smoothie after?” he rudely interrupted my thoughts at the peak of my fantasy amid our final position.

As a gal of robust stature, I’m always prepared for the worst. The inevitable relegation to the deadzone of either “fat friend” or “secret fling”. The truth is, while most men would fuck a girl of my size–and many would do so quite happily, frequently, and for years on end–the chance of them dating one is smaller.

They’ll call you sexy and grab your soft belly while they fuck you. They’ll sandwich their cock between your juicy thighs or huge tits and hump away until they explode. They’ll be mesmerized by the way your ass jiggles in doggy; they’ll spank it crimson and spray their load across it with glee.

They love everything about your body, except that you always have it–not just in the bedroom, but in public, around their friends, their family.

I’ll leave it to others to debate how much is their preference and how much is social pressure–an academic exercise, the answer to which contains no practical advice beyond the most obvious. Fucking a fetishist for a temporary thrill is fine, having reliably good sex with a runner is too. You just have to spot them early and manage your emotional investment carefully.

“Sure.”

When class wrapped, I didn’t change out of my tight-fitting clothes like I usually do. My belly might be a little big, a little floppy, but I think it’s cute and nothing beats the feeling of the spring breeze on it after sweating in class all morning. If he can’t handle it, we are never going to work.

In the lobby, I sipped my water and tucked loose ginger strands behind my ears, hoping my cheeks maintain their rosy glow until he’s had a good long look. Wearing a fresh polo, shorts, and a smile, he joined me, closing the distance quickly.

“Thanks for waiting.”

“Happy to,” I replied.

His hand boldly found a place on my lower back where my sweat had dried to a tack, contact that held fast the whole way to the cafe, through the line and collecting our smoothies, and toward the seating area.

“Inside or patio?”

“How about the park across the street? I’d enjoy stretching my legs a bit,” I replied.

“Oh, that sounds great!”

We made our way through the park with the usual sort of light conversation that strangers tend toward, passing joggers and dog-walkers, and the occasional parent trying to tire their rambunctious kids. If his hand’s comfort on my body was one positive sign, his eyes were another, bigger one. While they held my gaze, they weren’t afraid to look me up and down, neither lingering too long nor avoiding any particular part of me.

The conversation took a different tone as we settled on a bench, facing each other from opposite ends.

“How long have you been doing yoga?” he asked.

“Ten years, off and on. Started as a stress relief thing, but the activity is good–keeps me limber–always a battle when you have a desk job.”

“My doctor suggested it not-so-gently last year. Took me a while to finally do it. I’ve been enjoying it though.”

“Anything in particular about it?” I asked pointedly.

“My back has never felt better,” he said, hoping I wouldn’t press.

The smirk grew on my face and shyness found his eyes, sending them rolling over the grassy landscape.

“I… may have spent the last few classes trying to work up to finally saying hi.”

“I’m glad you did. And today was the perfect day for it,” I said, turning my cheeks to the sun, smiling as I took a deep breath of the crisp spring air. “It’s gorgeous out here.”

“Is it? Hmph,” he replied with a cheeky look.

Sucking noises echoed in his empty cup.

“If the outdoors isn’t your thing,” I said, pausing to soften the weight of what was coming, “My place isn’t far. If you’re in the mood for… tea or a snack…”

“I could go for a snack. Just a snack though, I, um, don’t have a whole meal on first dates.”

His indirectness came off as charming and I was struck by how forthright he was about this being a date. “I’ll happily wait for a meal if the snacks are good.”

I tossed my empty cup over his head and it landed in the trashcan on a friendly bounce. I took it as a sign of my luck on this particular day. Taking a fistfull of his polo, I pulled him toward me and kissed him.

My eyes gestured toward the can behind him. “Your turn.”

“Can I turn around?”

“It’s worth more if you don’t.”

He glanced over his shoulder, rattling his cup in his hand, then locked eyes with me and tossed it backward. I heard it bounce on pavement.

“Shame. I’m already rethinking my invitation.”

He stood up and took a step forward, lifted my chin, and planted a lengthy, defiant kiss on my lips.

“Saved by being such a good kisser.”

“Thank you,” he said, laughing as he took my hand and guided me off the bench. His hand took its place again low on my back, but it carried new intent, holding me closer to his side as we walked through the park. My place wasn’t nearly as close as I implied, but I felt like I floated the whole way.

Every pause–for passing pedestrians, for crosswalks, for me to open the door to my building–was another kiss. Him lifting my chin and leaning down. Or me looking up expectantly. In the elevator, I pulled his face to mine with both hands, only relenting when the doors threatened to close again after we’d reached my floor and hadn’t yet stepped out.

Apparently for him the hard part was that first hello in class. Only a hint of shyness tempered his attraction, though I had no idea how far it would lead. How many snacks can you have before it counts as a meal? How serious was he about holding that line? Was there still a chance he’d see what I had to offer and decline it all?

As my keys skidded across my dining table, the thuds of our duffel bags on the floor, I turned to face him. “Mind if I take a quick shower?”

“I’d rather you wait, if that’s ok.”

“Afraid to let me go? You could join me, if you wanted.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Just eager then?” I said, grinning.

“You could say that, yeah.”

“Alright, well… this way then…”

To say I dragged him by the hand would be a mischaracterization. I held his hand and led the way, but at times I felt like I was actually slowing him down.

I backed up to my bed and slid my hands under his fresh polo. He took his glasses off, letting me pull off his shirt. I bit my lip as my hands cascaded down his body, from shoulders to firm chest, down his almost-perceptible abs, and to the waist of his pants.

He shook his head slowly as he captured my wrists and placed them in the air above my head.

I stood there frozen, breath held. His hands landed flat on my belly. Slid upward. Caught the sopping band of my overworked sports bra under my loose cropped shirt. Drew it out and over my incorrigible tits. His palms grazed their peaks, traced them to their base, to my collar.

I heard him swallow a gasp when he saw them come loose and sag heavy on my chest. I dared to open my eyes, flashing a smile as delighted as his. I let myself relax and caught up on missed breaths, their replacements ragged in my throat.

“They are so much nicer than I imagined.”

Of course, I have heard that plenty. Plenty of titty-crazed men have lavished mine with attention while trying to ignore the more inconvenient parts of me. I try not to blame them–mine are a lot of fun and love to be played with–but the rest wants love too. And he knew it.

A long kiss on the lips led to one on my neck. On my collarbones. The tops of my tits, then open-mouthed ones over my nipples that ended with a drag of his tongue. My body was becoming his, hot with want, but when he kissed lower, he might have taken my soul too. Slow, wet kisses trailed down my belly, wandering toward my sides before circling my belly button.

Fuck.

As his lips reached the band of my yoga pants, his hands tugged it ever-lower. To the peak of my hips, down the taper of my thighs. His nose pressed just above his lips. Against my belly. Against my underwear. I could feel his breaths, deep, lengthy. The kind you take when you’re trying to immerse yourself in a scent, and I was all too sure I had plenty after such an active morning.

I ran my fingers through his hair, for kiss after kiss, inhale and exhale. My undressing abandoned for now, his hands crested my hips and took hold of my ass, pulling me tighter to his face.

He looked up at me with stars in his eyes. “I have something to confess…”

“Yes?” My body filled with trepidation.

“My first time in class. We were partners–just one position, a forward fold–I was behind you and you bumped my face. I caught the, um, faintest–and I mean it was barely there–scent of you, and it just… sent me.”

“Uh…” I felt my cheeks burn, then my whole chest.

“It. Was. Heavenly. I’ve been wanting to bury my face between your thighs ever since.”

The unexpected compliment, the detail of the story itself–the fact that he knew my scent before my name–got lost in the feelings. The ones on my skin and the ones churning deeper inside.

“Is that the snack you had in mind?”

“Kinda. If that’s ok.”

“It’s so much more than ok.”

Scooting backward on the bed, I pulled my legs out of my pants, then lifted my hips to peel off my underwear. From his spot on the floor, he had a perfect view as I parted my knees and my fingertips danced on my ginger-flecked mound. I could feel my lips parting, sticky, the cool air reaching deeper, hotter places.

His tongue found those same places, though not as quickly. His mouth was diligent and gentle in its exploration, in its teasing worship of my entire vulva. Every crease and fold and crevice. Every inch of skin. He lapped at the hair on my mound until it lost its memory of everything that transpired since my last shower.

He made a point of avoiding my clit, yet the pleasure was already a top ten experience. I wasn’t even sure I needed to cum for it to claim a higher spot. My body lacked the usual urgency. If he wasn’t racing to the finish, neither should I.

When his tongue chased the trail of wetness into the unreachable space below, I pulled my legs up, my toes clutched in my hands, rolling my hips to grant him fuller access. His tongue dazzled my holes with figure-8s that avoided any inkling or taunt of penetration.

At last, the urgency quaked in my belly. I felt myself clenching at emptiness and I was certain I was wetter than he could keep up with. His mouth moved higher, my legs resettling on the bed. His tongue pressed flat over my suddenly-needy clit, then his lips closed around it. I have no idea what he did next, only that it felt wonderful.

I exploded.

Covered in a hot rush. White filled my eyes. My body unleashed the most indecorous noises. Every fiber of me simply felt and I gained a new empathy for the men who can barely get it in before their ecstasy demands release.

But just as quickly as it hit me, the next one built in its wake. Hotter. Stronger. With a wild energy that defies words. An experience that can only be lived, even witnessing would do it no justice. It didn’t crest so much as it rolled. Coursed through me in violent pulses.

It made me question everything I thought I knew about my own pleasure, my own climax.
And. It. Just. Kept. Coming.
I just kept cumming.

I couldn’t have stopped it if I tried and it was so strong, I almost wanted to.
Wordless babble spilled from my mouth on hollow breaths and languorous moans.

He must have felt me go limp in surrender. In exhaustion.

Whatever his mouth was doing, it dwindled into the slowest of nibbles and kisses, letting me gradually rejoin the mortal realm to find my body peaceful and warm.

“Ok, I can let you shower now, if you want.”

“Wait…” I blinked to clear my eyes, to refocus them on him. “I can, just give me a sec and I can, uh…” My mind was struggling at the simplest task of offering a blowjob, assuming sex remained off the table.

“At most, one person gets to lose their pants on a first date. And only if it’s going really well.”

“Really well, huh?” I grinned at his admission. “If you stay, does that count as a second date? We could watch some TV. Order dinner. Maybe it’s your pants that get lost? That sounds like a second date to me.”

He laughed and shook his head. “I don’t think it works that way.”

“What if I kick you out first? Only long enough for the door to shut behind you. You knock. I let you in…”

“Maybe. If–I don’t know–I left while you took a shower, and I came back in… two hours? with whatever it is you want for dinner. And you picked out a movie or something. Then, that–I think–probably would count as a new date.”

“Throw in a reasonably-priced bottle of wine?”

“Sure, yeah, that couldn’t hurt. Are flowers too much for a second date?”

“That depends.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “On?”

“The possibility of sex.”

“Ah. Ok,” he said, wrangling a nervous chuckle. ”Noted.”

“Alright then. Get out. I’ve got a date and I need to get ready.”

Image 16 - A final one for the month (probably).

---

Audrey stood at the back of the yoga studio, arms crossed over her bare chest, watching perfect bodies stretch with grace and precision. She knew this was a mistake already.

Behind her, Sam, her husband, was blushing and appeared perplexed by the spectacle.

“Are you new?” came the voice from the front of the room.

“Yeah, sorry” Audrey replied, trying to maintain a neutral tone despite her nerves.

“So happy you all made it to our special session tonight. No need to feel shy or rush. We’re just gently starting to warm up, breathing, turning into ourselves.”

”Turning into ourselves,” Audrey thought, Who else would we be?

“When you’re comfortable, grab any spot you’d like and follow along to your comfort,” the instructor finished.

“See? Not weird,” Trisha said.

“Kinda weird, but, we’ll give it a shot,” Sam replied.

Trisha had been his best friend since high school, long before he met Audrey, and coming here was her idea. She swore by what these special sessions offered her–embodiment, empowerment, relaxation, a oneness with herself and a connection with others.

“Right?” Sam insisted, turning to Audrey.

While Sam embraced the idea–eagerly–she was skeptical. Trisha was always doing stuff like this, quests for enlightenment full of nebulous verbiage and specious claims. Audrey considered herself more traditional. Sam would tease her about being uptight or even puritanical, which she suspected was why they were really here; he’d get to gawk at hot naked bodies with his friend, leaving her to sit in her own discomfort and feeling “not good enough”. Frigid.

“Right. I told you I’d try, and, well, I’m here,” Audrey grumbled.

“By the end, you won’t even notice.” Trisha took a spot just off to the side, leaving them to adjust at their own pace.

Audrey muttered, “I doubt that.”

“Come on,” Sam plied. “We can stay in the back row, right next to Trisha. You’ll be fine.”

Audrey side-eyed her husband and reluctantly followed him. She was the last to follow the instructor’s movements and breathing cues, finally letting her arms fall to her sides.

There was a wide variety of bodies and body types in the room–the skinny brunette in front of her, Trisha’s plump curves off to her right, the instructor’s lithe brown figure with visible abs and a perky round butt–that she couldn’t help comparing herself to. She didn’t dislike her body, but that’s not to say she ever really liked it either. It was fine, but that counted for even less in a room like this.

She tried not to envy her husband, who was easily the most fit–and probably most attractive–man in the room. There was much less competition, with only 4 guys to the 6 ladies, and Audrey was sure he didn’t mind having so much to look at. The fairer thing to envy was how easily he adapted to the activity. He seemed confident in his stretching, in himself.

As the class started, the first meditation was simple. A butterfly pose with a focus on breathing, on feeling every tiny little nerve. Cool air blew across her skin and ambient music flowed in her ears, but Audrey told herself she didn’t really feel anything except maybe the soft tack of the mat when she shifted. At least Sam looked to be at peace. Good for him.

The second meditation was a celebration of self–whatever that meant.

“Lie back. Eyes closed. Explore sensation across your body. Feel the way your energy moves and grows.”

Audrey rolled her eyes behind their lids.

“It’s natural if you get excited. That means you’re feeling the connection to yourself.”

She didn’t understand how such a thing would even be possible.

“Good, good,” the instructor said, walking around to provide feedback. Her shadow fell across Audrey, but her voice came from her right, by Sam, “Excellent! You’ve got it.”

Of course he did. And Audrey could picture her fawning all over him.

“Try starting at your waist.” Her voice was much closer, probably right over Audrey’s head. “Small strokes extending upward, extending downward. Growing as you feel your body respond.”

All Audrey felt was stupid. Embarrassed. Jealous of Sam. Irritated at Trisha for her well-meaning but tone-deaf suggestion. Touching herself in public wasn’t going to solve the concerns in their bedroom–if there really even were any–and so far, this was only making her feel worse.

“May I?” the instructor asked.

Audrey opened her eyes to see the instructor’s warm face beaming down at her.

“I’ll just hold your wrists. Let your hands go limp and just breathe with me. Ok?”

With a nervous nod, her cheeks blushing, she accepted. The instructor cradled her wrists, lifting them so only her fingertips dragged on her skin, circling aimlessly over her belly.

“It can take some work your first few times. Totally normal. This is a brand new experience for you.”

Down to her hip bones, up to her ribs, across her navel and nearly to the edge of her bush. Her fingers dragged over the tops of her thighs, spread wider by the curve, narrowing again as they reached her hips. The line continued up her center, her breath catching as they reached her chest.

“There you go. Perfect start. Now continue to explore wherever feels nice.”

The instructor’s hands left, her shadow no longer loomed, but Audrey continued to imagine her guiding her fingers up and down, adjusting her pressure from faint to firm, from tips to knuckles to whole fingers, from the slowest of crawls to a more spirited roam.

This still didn’t feel like a solution to Audrey, but it also wasn’t bad.

“All right. Now we’re going to find a partner–whoever is close, doesn’t matter, they won’t be your only one. Introduce yourself and sit knee-to-knee in butterfly pose as best you can.”

Relief washed through Audrey as Sam moved between her and the rest of the room. Not only did he block their view of her naked body, his own connection to his body (if that’s what it's called in this place) was only visible to her. He looked impossibly comfortable, too relaxed considering their surroundings.

“I want you to look into their eyes, while opening yours for them. Breathe together. Relax your gaze and let theirs enter yours. Let their gaze pull yours deeper.”

Audrey could feel herself relaxing under Sam’s influence. She always loved the warmth and care his eyes displayed. They were one of the first things she noticed about him, aside from his booming voice and gregarious presence. In them, she saw their years together–the dates, their wedding, all of the late nights and early mornings.

She could see the old joy behind the recent tears, the excitement behind the exhaustion.

“Now we’re going to introduce touch,” the instructor said, facing the participants from the front of the room.

“I want you to have an on-going dialog about consent and limits–if you want to touch or be touched, how you like to be touched, and where that touch is desired–knowing it can change at any time and trusting your partner to respect it.”

The instructor paused in the center of the room, observing as the pairs engaged with each other. “I am hearing a lot of great engagement. Very specific, very detailed. Don’t be afraid to ask for clarification.”

Audrey was thankful that she didn’t have to think about how to describe her boundaries or preferences; Sam knew what she liked and she trusted him to stay appropriate to their environment.

“If you’re both comfortable, place your hands on each others’ knees; otherwise, you can rest your hands on your own knees. You are free to explore from there, within the limits you and your partner establish. Remember, this is all about your own comfort. Your safety. Respect for yourself and your partner.”

Sam and Audrey traded smirks as their hands settled on each other’s knees. While hers moved up to his thighs, his trailed down her calves. Any other time or place, this would have been unremarkable, but in her own small way, Audrey was starting to understand the purpose of the program.

“This is about truly feeling yourself and your partner. Exploring the sensation of touching and being touched. Notice how your energies flow in and out…”

As her hands reached his ribs, Sam hummed affirmation.

“Yes!” the instructor exclaimed. “Be vocal with your partner! Voice is energy too.”

Audrey felt herself slowing down, enjoying the small details. The way his chest hair felt on her fingers, the steadiness of his breath beneath them. The thickness of the skin on the pads of his fingers. The breadth of his palms around the taper of her ankles, their flatness when they reached her thighs.

“If you feel comfortable, invite your partner to your energy center. You might call it your yoni or lingam, or something else. It might exist somewhere else on your body, guide them to it.”

The suggestion froze Audrey.

“Here,” Sam said, taking her hands, positioning them on his thighs so her thumbs could stroke the crease below his hips. “Close enough.”

She was touched by the gesture. While she dared only to steal glimpses of the other pairs, she suspected they were bolder than she was. And that was ok. This wasn’t a competition. It was exploration, an act that she was finding meditative. The connection was as alive in his eyes as it was in his body under her hands.

“Arousal is a natural outcome of energy flow, and intense exchanges of energy may result in orgasm. Energetic connection is the goal, not sexual gratification, but don’t be embarrassed if it happens.”

The instructor's words passed through her head uncritically, her awareness lulled by the sweetness of her intimacy with Sam. The sounds of pleasing and pleasure soon filled the room, but those too were lost on Audrey. The others might have not even existed, until the next instruction caught in her ear, wrapping itself around her entire existence.

“Now turn. Find a new partner, whoever is close, doesn’t matter who. We’re going to replay this exercise. If you were primarily a giver last time, it is your turn to receive, to your level of comfort. Introduce yourself and sit knee-to-knee in butterfly pose as best you can.”

It took Audrey precious seconds to catch up, seconds in which seemingly everyone switched. Sam was half-turned, awash in the skinny brunette’s interest. Trisha was cozying up to a fit woman with an asymmetrical pixie cut. The brunette’s male partner had moved toward Audrey, but faced the shapely blonde at her left.

For a second, she panicked, fearing exclusion.

“You’ll be fine, right?” Sam asked, his hand lingering in her lap.

“Yeah, um, I’m good.”

Her words were reflexive, detached from the reality taking place.

A man’s voice came from behind her, “Would it be alright if I joined you?”

She spun to face him, finding him crouched at a comfortable distance, careful not to look imposing. Noticing first the sparkle in his eyes, the soft smile showing through a well-kept beard, her eyes drifting downward in shyness and were rewarded by his fit body and soft cock dangling in the open air.

Audrey wondered where he had been hiding.

“Sorry, it’s my first time here. I’m a little nervous. I’m Audrey.”

“Lovely name,” he said, sitting in the pose ever-so-slightly closer. “I’m Chance.”

“Start with the same deep gazing as before. Find your breathing.”

His gaze stirred a warm brand of nerves in Audrey as she scooted closer until their knees nearly touched. He saw into her with no effort, offering his depths to her with no resistance. She had never thought gazing was a skill before, but Chance was proof. Slowly, their breaths fell in sync as she chased the lights in his eyes, seeking their source through swirls of green and brown.

“And now you can begin your dialog about touch. If, how, and where. This is our final meditation, but we have plenty of time, so move at your own pace.”

Tension formed in Audrey’s belly at the thought of being touched by a stranger, though the more time their eyes spent together, the less Chance felt like one.

“Maybe just our knees for now?” he asked, nodding slightly.

Audrey shifted, feeling a hot tingle where their knees met. As bad as she felt for enjoying it, she felt worse for wanting more. Around her, she heard whispered permissions, invitations, requests. She had no doubt that the skinny brunette already knew the feel of Sam’s hands.

“Um, here.” With a deep breath, she placed his hands on the outside of her legs, drawing them up slowly from her knees to mid-thigh. Her nerves broke as tingles rippled through her, as he leaned closer to follow her pull. “Actually, um, wherever, is fine. I’m just overthinking.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, you’re–” Too many words raced to mind, each with its own set of uncomfortable implications. “Comforting.” She kicked herself for that one, unsure what it even meant. He wasn’t a piece of furniture. A warm blanket, though… maybe.

“I’ll go slow. Please stop me if anything feels too much or too fast or just not right, ok?”

His hands moved slowly up and down the same path, a firm touch that gave rather than demanded. With every cycle, she held her breath when his eyes dipped close, as if one of these times he might continue forward until their lips met. Audrey felt guilty for thinking about it, for enjoying what his touch was doing to her.

She recoiled at the fact that she was trying to picture Sam and the brunette, pacing his moves as some kind of permission for the extent of her own desire. An excuse to be touched by Chance, even to touch him back.

Bit by bit, his hands were approaching her hips. Reaching them bought his face even closer. Inches away. Audrey swallowed her attempts to form words, but eventually they broke through.

“You can go higher.”

With the same pace that led him to her hips, he moved from her hips to her waist. Then higher. As his touch threatened the edge of the crease below her bust, anticipation rushed through her body, coming out in a pointed moan.

“Yes!” the instructor reacted. “I know you’re feeling it! Let’s all feel it!”

Audrey blushed at her outsized reaction, knowing Sam must have recognized it. If his hands weren’t already all over the brunette, she was sure they would be shortly. A poor trade for mere anticipation.

“Touch them,” she said.

His palms settled softly under her breasts, cupping with spread fingers, his thumbs settling between them. Her eyes threatened to slide shut with a sigh, but his gaze was insistent, stopping them halfway.

“Like that? Feel good?”

“Yeahhh…”

Her satisfied drawl wasn’t alone in the room. Others hummed or cooed. The space filled with soft moans heavy breaths, as if the room itself was experiencing pleasure. And the instructor stood ready to shepherd it further.

“Great job, everyone, great connections. I can feel all of your energy flowing. Feel free to have the dialog with your partner about your energy centers. Invite them to yours if you desire.”

The suggestion made Audrey’s hips jolt forward. Her thighs shook as she tried to sink back into the mat.

“Is that, something you want?”

Her face showed her frustration, eyebrows knitted in agony. She bit her lip, trying to distract herself, but nodded anyway.

Chance let one hand drop to her knee while the other moved slowly down her belly. His hand slipped gently over her yoni and just held it. His deep gaze made her breaths tense, her mouth dry, and she didn’t dare blink. His touch was one of comfort, of affirmation, but she could ignore all of the other things it was doing to her body, her mind.

He knew it too. He could feel the energy building across their eyes and underneath his hand. The top of his palm was placed perfectly to deliver pressure across her clit while the base of it pressed just above her pelvis. Every increase pushed breath from her lungs, punctuated by the slightest quaver from her throat.

“Keep going,” she mouthed.

His hands move to the front of her hips and his thumbs take turns rolling down the creases of her thighs, their tips gently prodding the outside of her lips. As her growing wetness reaches the cool air, the sound of it between her lips becomes clearer with every slow stroke and she wonders if it will put him off.

“More,” she mouths again.

The energy is too strong to resist. It’s thick in the room. A bellow breaks loose from someone. Too deep for the brunette. It’s probably Trisha, and Audrey was beginning to embrace why Trisha liked it here, why she recommended this session. The novel touch of a stranger felt invigorating. Like a giant reset button for your desire.

Chance's thumb tumbled from the apex of her lips, barely grazing her clit in passing. It felt like a firecracker.

“Sorry.”

“It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok,” Audrey whispered, reassuring herself as much as him. Reeling, her eyes drift from his and notice his cock lying flaccid on the mat. “Oh, I’m sorry, I… I can…”

“It’s not about that right now. It’s about you.” His eyes mirrored hers. “She’s glowing. Like the rest of you, but brighter. She must be celebrated.”

Though she felt a bit too seen, the sentiment was sweet. “Thank you.”

His face dodged in space, reeling her eyes back to his. His thumb pressed high on her lip, nudging it against her clit in unhurried circles.

“Ohhhhh…”

“There?”

“Everywhere,” she begged.

The circling continued in double–his thumb on the side of her clit, a finger barely present on her entrance. His finger dipped every few rounds, her hips rocking in response, trying to catch it.

She hated how badly wanted his fingers inside her. His fingers.

The tension in her belly was too much. Desperation fluttered in her chest more with each pass, each teasing press. The softness, the slowness of his touch is frustrating. Enticing. She wants more. Maybe all of it. And now.

“Yes! In me. Please.”

The solitary finger felt enormous as it entered. It teased every nerve ending at once. Pressed all her spots. It didn’t move at all. It didn’t have to. It was already doing everything.

His thumb closed over her mound, pressing against his finger from the outside.

Audrey felt the swell of orgasm inside her, at the precipice of release.

Instead it grew.

Its warmth cascaded through her body.

A promise. Buzzing but not bursting. Steady in its place.

The slightest clench or flex of her hips to rub against him would have set it free.

Stillness was better.

Tension. Fullness. Heat.

Its proximity was overwhelming enough. It even broke time.

Audrey didn’t hear the instructor talking, wrapping up the exercise. She didn’t even feel Chance’s body leaving hers. His energy was still there. It felt incredible.

Her orgasm remained where it was, her body locked in place while the instructor thanked everyone and dismissed them. She had barely found herself when Sam and Trisha approached.

“So?” Trisha asked, her face rosy and glowing.

Sam eagerly answered, “That was a lot of fun.”

“Ok, you were right,” Audrey admitted, eyelids half-drooped. “It was… informative.”

“Such an Audrey answer,” Trisha jabbed.

“I see why you like it.”

As Sam retrieved their clothes, Trisha mouthed, “With Chance? Oh. My. God.”

Audrey’s eyes slid shut as she reflexively licked her lips.

Sam and Trisha were dressed when she reopened them. Shaking her head, she hurried to catch up.

“I’ll see you two later, I’ve got a couple batteries to drain,” Trisha said as she offered a fist-bump to each of them.

Audrey pulled Sam in to whisper in his ear, “I need you to fuck me like crazy.”

“Now?”

“I can wait as long as it takes, but not a second longer.”

Their walk home was quick, but not hurried. Every look between them had a perceptible charge. They didn’t talk, but they held hands for the first time in ages. They only let go to strip each other once they reached their bedroom, but the silence held.

Audrey pressed her lips to Sam’s with a fire she didn’t know she had anymore. Their lips moved so slow, they were practically motionless. Their fingers held each other’s bodies with newfound grace, an appreciation for the touch itself. Every contact felt like warm honey and moved so much slower.

The orgasm she possessed but never had remained exactly where it had been, no weaker for waiting.

Audrey stepped backward, falling onto the bed, and pulling his weight onto her body.

“I want you inside me like never before.”

He entered her quickly, but her hands caught his hips in their first stroke.

“Just deep. Stay there. Look at me.”

Staring up at him, losing herself in the eyes she loved, she could feel him all over. Outside, inside, all her nerves still standing on end to absorb him. Her orgasm burned red hot, pulsing, threatening to break free. Her body tensed, shaking, trying to hold it back. One more second, then another.

She pressed her lips to his and let her body relax. Her every nerve exploded at once. A ferocious moan ripped through her throat. Her back arched violently against the bed. Her body clenched hard around him, tighter and tighter, squeezing him until his face practically melted.

His body pulsed back. Hips quivering. Weak. Heat filling her. A delayed groan that sounded like exhaustion.

“Aud, my god,” he said when he finally came to his senses. “I guess I was a little excited still. Ha.”

“That brunette fill your head with dirty thoughts?”

“Oh, she gave me lots of ideas, for you,” he said in defense.

“Did you at least give her an orgasm as a thank you?”

“I was trying not to, which, felt harder than trying to. It was weird.” Sam’s eyes widened in a pointed glare. “I heard yours though. I was proud.”

“Ha.” Audrey shook her head. “That was just all the stress leaving my body.”

“So, an orgasm. I’m not judging. Not complaining. Whatever you did, he did, I can’t argue with the result. What even was that?”

“It was a long time coming and you just felt so good.”

“You always do, my god, but that– You just pulled it right out of me.”

Audrey turned away, blushing, giving him a teasing push on the shoulder.

“Would you… do it again…?”

“Probably.”

“Really? Miss I-Don’t-Know-About-This-It-Sounds-Weird…”

“I’m as surprised as you are, but, I feel like it, unlocked, something, in me. Maybe there’s more?”

“I can talk to Trisha, see when they meet.”

“Mmm, later. Please. I’m not nearly done with you yet.”

Image 17

---

Oliver and Francis loved estate sales. This weekend, they were attending one a few towns away, in a charming older home. They found all the usual sorts of things–the furniture, the kitchen tools and appliances, the dishes, the assorted kitsch and trinkets.

While Francis picked through an assortment of vases and cakeplates, she wondered aloud, “I wonder how many anniversaries these were part of. Births, birthdays. Graduations. Showers. I wish I could see all the memories they hold.”

Oliver’s search had netted him a much more literal stash of memories. The kind that spoke for themselves. He thumbed a set of vintage photographs pulled from the jacket of an old book, angling them toward his wife.

“Fran. Look.”

Her eyes drifted over them for the briefest of moments, but quickly covered them with her hand, pushing them aside. “Gross, Ollie. That’s private.”

Her reaction didn’t surprise him. Fran was no prude in the bedroom with Oliver, but she tended toward a conventional stance about sex, considering it a private matter between committed partners.

“I know, but, look, really look.”

Francis glared at him, her face wearing a look of disgust as her fingers slid back to reveal the top edge of the topmost photo. “She looks like Hope. Same smile, but longer hair. And Vera in a green dress, with Hank.”

She glanced sideways, sidling next to Oliver for a closer inspection of the picture. Her hand dropped to reveal the most uncanny feature of the photo.

“That’s, that’s you. I bought you that tie. And… me… that dress… I’ve never even worn it…”

She looked up at Oliver, shaking her head, speechless.

“I know. It’s crazy, isn’t it?”

Francis’s face turned sour, her body shifting quickly away. “Put that back where you found it.”

“For someone else to find? I’m going to buy them–with the book! We don’t have to keep them, I’d just feel better knowing no one will stumble on them and get the wrong idea. I’ll check for any more floating around here.”

“Fiiiiine,” Francis said with mild judgment in her tone, continuing more quickly over the rest of the table.

=

For months, the pictures remained tucked in the same book that carried them in secret for many years. Their existence escaped as quickly from Oliver’s mind as it was purged from Francis’s. Until a conversation tingled at his memory of them.

“I put your clothes out for you,” Francis shouted from the closet as Oliver stepped out of the shower.

When he made it to the bed to see, he shouted back, “A bit much, don’t you think?”

“We never dress up anymore, so, I am taking this as an excuse to make you.”

He thought nothing of it–the black pants, white shirt, red tie–until he turned and saw her. The hairs on his neck stood on end, instantly recalling the red dress with a blousy white top from the estate sale photograph.

“Wow.”

“What do you think? I got this so long ago, but I just never had the right occasion for it. It’s a little costumey, but it’s fun, right?”

Oliver wasn’t sure what to say. The coincidence was uncanny, but easy enough to write off to subliminal influence. And he wasn’t going to dampen her mood by bringing it up.

“I think you look great.”

While she finished getting ready, Oliver couldn’t help his curiosity. He plodded into his office and pulled the old book from the cabinet where he’d stashed it. It was remarkable how well the outfits matched, not to mention the coincidence of tonight’s party at Hank and Vera’s to celebrate the completion of a years-long, painstaking restoration of the old Victorian they lived in.

Increasingly, he began to feel unsettled about the stack of pictures, though it didn’t stop him from tucking them into his pocket. He didn’t know what he intended to do with them, but he suspected Hank might find them more curious than Francis had.

The whole drive over, they were all he could think about, with Francis’s excited chit-chat about seeing their friends and how much she loves historic homes doing little to distract him. When they arrived, he felt immediately queasy. Vera’s outfit too, was just like the photo.

“Ollie, been too long. This project was an absolute killer on all my free time. How ya been?”

Oliver’s palms grew clammy patting the contents of his jacket pocket when he saw Hank’s very blue look.

“Um. Fine? Yeah.”

Then he heard Francis’s voice. “Hope! Oh! I didn’t know you’d be here! How lovely!”

The room felt like it spun around him. Flashes of memory, of reality. Vera’s green dress. Hank in a blue shirt and slacks. His own red tie. Francis’s unworn dress. And there was Hope. Long blond hair in dramatic waves cascading over her shoulder. Her dress, pale pink, tight around her body and effortlessly flowing around her thighs.

Oliver excused himself to the bathroom and nervously slipped the photo out, holding it up to his face for inspection, for confirmation that this wasn’t all in his head. A brain tumor, a psychotic break, or maybe one of the most elaborate pranks ever constructed. He searched every detail for an answer, for a flaw that would unwind it all.

All he found was a perfect match, down to the portable phonograph on the vintage coffee table.

He carried that discomfort back to the party, churning in his gut like a premonition of bad news mixed with the visceral anticipation found at the top of a rollercoaster.

“You don’t look so good, dear,” Francis said. “You’re all shiny and pale. Are you feeling ok?”

“Yeah, I, it’s, it’s nothing. A little lightheaded, I guess.”

“We were just catching up. Don’t worry, it’s just the five of us.” Francis led him to the chaise longue at the edge of the room. ”Here, lie down.”

A shiver ran through him as he laid down and reality converged with the moment captured on film. He didn’t need to look around to see it.

Francis was at his side, looking him over with mild concern.
Behind him, he could hear Hank speaking softly to Vera as she sat on the chair.
The phonograph crackled, bursting into energetic song.
Hope loudly proclaimed, “Let’s dance!”
The sound of her shoes tumbling loosely to the floor might have been the sound of the shutter.

Beyond the first snapshot, embracing fate seemed the only choice for Oliver. Grappling with the surreal nature of the evening was a waste and the remainder of the stack held an alluring promise–one that made no sense for him, for Francis, or likely for the others in the room. For it to actually transpire would be beyond coincidence, beyond the subliminal. There would exist no rational explanation.

Yet, it felt inevitable to Oliver as he again patted his pocket.

He turned his head toward the girls dancing in the middle of the room, watching the next snapshot manifest in realtime. One song, then another, the three of them bouncing together with Hank egging them on from afar.

Hope’s dress went off first, landing somewhere near her abandoned shoes, leaving her dancing in just her matching underwear. The black lace was her destiny, strapless above and high-legged below.

Vera came next, down to a triangle of red satin with as little effort as there was conversation about it. Her breasts jiggled in time to the beat as the trio danced and Hank hollered.

The real surprise was how quickly Francis, the shyest, most modest one, pulled her top down and her bra along with it. It would have surprised him in the past, but tonight Oliver didn’t mind, as long as she was having fun. Though her cheeks blushed, her eyes and smile were lit with excitement.

Their dancing carried on for another photo–Oliver’s only tether to time–before Hank summoned his wife back to his side. The sound of them making out behind him was unmistakable, cutting through the music, as Francis settled by his side on the chaise with an expression that blended scandal with a dose of titillation.

“They’re making out,” she whispered.

Oliver pulled her down for a lengthy kiss of their own. Ending it with a gesture toward something hidden by his wife’s position. “Wait until you see Hope.”

Francis turned to look over her shoulder, finding Hope sunk into a chair, rubbing herself over her underwear. Her eyes returned to Oliver and the look of shock faded, bested by an impish twinkle in her eye. She gathered up her dress around her thighs. Her fingers sneaked down her legs with a small bundle of orange fabric that she stuffed into the neckline sitting below her breasts.

She glanced around again, going wide-eyed at the sight of Hank and Vera, and kicked her leg over Oliver’s hip. Unbuttoning his pants to the escalating sounds around them–the slap of skin, the squish of fingers in wetness, the barely-held moans of the women in stereo–Francis mounted him and started to ride.

To the best of Oliver’s knowledge, no one in the room had done anything like this before, which is to say, it never came up in conversation. Not a hint or allusion. Nothing. That’s what drew him to the set of pictures in the first place. They transcended reason and offered debaucherous mystery. And somehow he, the holder of the evidence, appeared to be the only one confused by what was happening.

“Your color is back. Are you feeling better?” Francis asked, hips grinding against Oliver.

“I’m never better than when you’re on top.”

A moan pulled their attention from each other. Hope was splayed in her chair, hips bucking against her hand as her fingers repeatedly plunged inside herself. Her eyes were locked on Hank and Vera. She was pinching and twisting a nipple wrested from her bra. Her solo vignette grew frantic. The wet slap of her palm. Moans and stilted breaths.

Francis and Oliver exchanged looks, impressed by the unabashed spectacle that was Hope, before turning to Hank and Vera. With her ass on the chair’s arm, her knees were high and wide, pressed between Hank’s upright body and her own. His hips snapped with brutal precision, a clap of flesh sounding every stroke over her rapid, tensed breath.

“Mmmm. Ollie,” Francis moaned, as if to join the chorus, if not compete. “You feel so good.”

He tucked his hands behind his head, grinning wide. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. I never would have expected.”

“It’s not like I planned it! It just, happened. Wouldn’t it be rude to not, um, partake?”

Francis, the woman who eschewed pornography of all kinds, was now seemingly in one, riding him while she watched others conduct their own indecencies, and that was her excuse.

He held back his laughter, shaking his head.

“It works for you. That dress. All of this. Somehow.”

“Thank you, love.” Her eyes drifted in that far-off way, but her riding had a more confident edge than usual. “I feel, sexy.”

They missed an exchange of words, but not the exchange of places, nor the distinct tonal shift that followed. Hope had crossed the room to join Hank and Vera. She was making out with him, her ass against the chair, while Vera watched. Hank turned her, leaning her into Vera for a kiss, so he could penetrate her from behind. With a firm hold of her hips, Hank thrust into her, her round ass clapping loud while she moaned into Vera’s mouth.

Francis and Oliver returned to each other’s attention, losing themselves in each other until Vera appeared astride the chaise. Pulling her head back, her lips fell on Francis’s. Her hand claimed a bouncing breast. She had Francis’s full attention when she whispered something in her ear, stopping her mid-grind atop Oliver.

With a wide grin, Francis raised up until Oliver slid out of her. If only she knew that Oliver had already seen what was coming. She never sat on his face, but today she did, turning around so she could hold his cock steady for Vera to mount. Oliver’s tongue swirled around Francis’s hardened clit as Vera quickly bottomed herself out.

The surprise for Oliver was in the experience. The texture and tightness of Vera. The noises she made and her aggressive riding style. While Francis was mostly a horizontal slider, Vera held herself over her partner and swung her hips with abandon, her flexibility and athleticism delivering full-length strokes at breakneck pace.

With the added stimulus of Francis on his face, his tongue on her delicate skin, her slick coating his lips and chin, Oliver knew the end was coming much faster than he’d like, he only hoped he could get Francis there first.

His best chance at avoiding her regret was in providing her the hardest of orgasms. The kind she describes in vivid metaphors like fireworks and earthquakes and tidal waves.

But the distractions made it difficult to focus. Hope was coming apart once more, with Hank’s grunting turning sharper. The music had long gone silent, leaving only the crackle of vinyl to disguise the squeaks and groans of furniture being put to the ultimate test. And Vera wasn’t slowing down.

Vera tightened around Oliver, her noises muffled by Francis’s lips. Oliver could swear he felt Francis’s knuckles graze his crotch beneath Vera’s frenzy. Good for her, if so. Good for them both. Francis broke, in a trademark gasp, her hips recoiling ever so slightly.

Then Vera did too, just as Oliver reached to warn her. She’d barely popped off him when his own hit.

Francis’s hand coaxing him through the final stretch, Oliver groaned between her thighs as he pulsed in her hand, his load dribbling over her fingers and onto his belly. Francis stood up, leaving Oliver’s wandering eyes to witness Hank’s hand leave the back of Hope’s head so she could catch his finish in her open mouth.

The next moment seemed to hang in the air, more permanent than anything in the stack of photographs.

The only sound was breath and the settling of bodies onto cushions. Then Vera said, in the most inexplicably non-chalant tone, “It’s late. Stay the night. We have plenty of room for you all to crash here.”

Everyone, without any sense of awkwardness, without any conversation, did exactly that.

It wasn’t until morning that anything seemed amiss.

“What the fuck?!”

The heated exclamation came from downstairs, echoing through the entire house.

Oliver and Francis startled awake in the room where they had tucked themselves in and drifted expediently to sleep without a word about what had happened. Sleepily, they shuffled out to find Hope kneeling on the floor in the living room, flipping through the stack of photographs with exasperation.

“What are those?” Vera asked, stepping closer to take a look. “Oh, these are from last night. Huh.”

Hank hurried to join the gallery, viewing each photo in turn as they passed them between themselves. Their jaws hung low at seeing the lewd details committed to paper.

“Wait, who even took these?” Hank asked.

Standing at the edge of the room, Francis shot Oliver a sideways glare, half accusatory, half questioning.

“That’s what I have been trying to figure out, although I have so many more questions,” Oliver said from his comfortable distance. “Let me tell you a story about an estate sale in Havendale…”