sometimes it's not only talk |
He says yes, of course he does. No straight man would say no even knowing it is a bad idea. We make plans, you make plans, buying new sheets doing laundry making dinner as though he were a very important houseguest and not a man intent on taking your virginity, such as it was. I play along because I have not seen you this animated since before your asshole brother made that comment about how fat you were getting in your contentment and my ex-boyfriend called looking for the late night booty call I would have given him six months ago. I already guessed some this has to do with a need to prove yourself beautiful by making a man want you: a cocktease in truth. I play along because I am every bit the conniving bitch; I want know Ernesto naked, want to know what his cock feels like in my mouth, stretching out my pussy, buried in my ass. I want to know if his arms are as strong as they look and if they can hold me up against a wall when I wrap my legs around him. I want to know if he has clever digits that can make you come as hard as I can. I could live with nothing and no one but you. Yet you are right to worry. I miss the taste of men, the hard edge no amount of showering, deodorant or cologne can erase from a man’s skin, the small tightening of surprise when I work a finger into an asshole as I swallow a dick in my mouth. Things you cannot give me, things that, in offering me Ernesto, you are trying to make up for. A better person than I would take the gesture for what it was and put a stop to this madness. A braver person would admit her excitement. But I am neither so I wait quietly, letting you run the show. He comes over at six-thirty on the dot, like he was afraid if he was late we would change our minds, looking scrumptious in a suit I recognize from my days of selling menswear. A big man, stocky and well-defined, although not much taller than me, his shoulders go on for ever and he has that tapered super-hero waist, powerful legs combination going for him, supremely fit from bike riding bulging with muscles the tailored Armani suit has no hope of containing his black and silver tie picking up the glints of silver in his black hair the glints of gold in his cacao eyes skin swarthy with the outdoors and Mediterranean ancestors. He was my type, rough dangerous looking for all the world as though he were five minutes away from doing something uncivilized though right now, with that uncertain hesitant smile in place, two bouquets of roses, one white one red one for each of us and a bottle of wine he seems harmless, domesticated even, if I did not know what that golden glint in his eyes actually means. You begin to flutter about vivacious in your nervousness. I hang back content to let you do your thing, finding a vase to put the flowers in, unearthing the bottle opener, turning down the burners on the pasta and generally letting you get acquainted with the feel of a man in your space. Lord knows I’m not having any such problems, a small trickle of moisture pooling in my cunt from the minute the doorbell rang. He behaves perfectly courtesy of some stern grandmother that taught him chivalry and manners in the hopes of living long enough to see great-grandchildren. Soon enough you are at ease again, sparkling with wine and happiness as you feed him seconds and then thirds so wrapped up in temptation you forget I am there, the two of you exchanging quips small touches and glances fraught with meaning. I almost feel disappointed at being left out before I come to my senses, tonight being about you no matter how much I might want it to be about me. I work at staying in the background. You move to the living room after dinner; I stay in the kitchen to clean up surprised at how strong my jealousy is. I always knew Ernesto wanted you; I know that you will come back to me when this was done. Still, it is hard to talk myself into lingering over the dishes when I want to barge into the living room and demand to know just what is so fucking funny that has you howling that whole body laugh you rarely let loose in front of company. But I am good for once and dry my hands setting to rights table placements and cutlery until there is nothing else I could plausibly be doing in the kitchen and the howls of laughter stop. You are on his lap hands wrapped in his hair the way mine were in yours that first time throaty moans muffled by his tongue in your mouth. I feel a kick of envy intense enough to nearly bowl me over. I want to be you; I want to be him; instead I move away from the doorway making my way quietly into the guest bedroom to turn down the sheets light the candles and set out the just-in-case lube – though from the frequency of your moaning I doubt you will need it – making sure the room is ready for whenever you move the party off of the couch, having come to the decision earlier that our bedroom was too much about you and me to allow a third person. I go back out into the living room to find you half-undressed his hands awkwardly working the clasps of the pale peach pink demi-bra I bought you for Valentine’s Day, which is hard to do, I know, with you wriggling in his lap like it was Christmas and he jolly old St. Nick and though the jealousy is crushing I haven’t enough of a better nature to stop the shallow breathing or the tremors licking up my skin. You come apart slowly with wet sucking noises to look up at me with passion-stained lips in a feline grin, definitely the sex-kitten on the prowl. I am wet, so very wet with envy and imagining. His nose twitches slightly like he can smell me from all the way over there even with you on his lap. Then he grins a big-kitty king-of-the-lions grin a grin which he does in place of strutting mightily pleased with himself for having not one but two women running hot for him a grin he can keep for now because I know if I get him hot heavy and aching, I can wipe that grin clean off his face once his cock is in my mouth. I cannot control the panting but I let the knowledge shine through me. I watch with vicious pleasure his cacao eyes darken with the promise he reads in my face. Petty to be pleased that I have his undivided attention now, in spite of you, my beautiful baby, sitting in his lap, but there it is. Ernesto tries to be commanding when he says, come here and join us, but it comes across as desperate. I waste no time getting out of my clothes figuring someone has got to be the first to get naked – it might as well be me. The big reveal meant not only to titillate but because knowing exactly how perfect you are and able to guess from the fit of the suit the tent in the trousers how perfect he is, I want to be first, to hide my flaws. While I am no slouch I have that extra belly pouch no amount of sit-ups is going to rid of, breasts that are round but not perky the cellulite that comes with having a big ass. I shuck everything but the shoes, gorgeous gold heels I bought ages ago but never wear anymore because they are hard to walk in, hard for me to kiss you standing up in the devil dangling on the chain from my navel catching both your eyes. I feel like a fucking star, the unintentional pun making me laugh the stares making me wet as I walk back towards the guest room buoyed on adrenaline laying myself on the bed for optimal access shoulders leaning up against the headboard legs spread with the right one bent outwards at the knee the fine hairs covering my pussy glistening with excitement – I had thought to shave but you convinced me that the contrast of your smoothness and my thatch would be a more irresistible combination another reason I did not believe in your line about this being your first time – when Ernesto crashes into the room carrying you, your legs wrapped around him. He holds you by the ass-cheeks, kissing you with eyes open, and stumbles at the sight of me. I think you were right. Suddenly I know this will all turn out fine the you and me and him together. |