Always a week behind, this was from last week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt – Observe – but it was a fucker to write.
I once had a daydream that a man I didn’t fancy but wanted to fuck pretty badly, and my partner who I loved more fervently than the moon loves the sun, discussed the quality of my blow jobs behind my back, in the middle of a party.
I say party, there were maybe six other people there, but just window-dressing, faceless shapes to half overhear the story and blush, or catch the distorted image of my lips stretched by his cock over their shoulders. I’m not really a party girl. I’m a ten dozen photos of her naked and debased on your phone kind of girl. A show your mates a video of her wanking down the pub on Friday night girl. A “No, not her. Really?” sort of girl.
I say once, it was weeks. Imagining the conversations. Do you want to hear my favourite? The one that made me inch my hand along the hem of my skirt under my desk at work, and subtly draw the fingers up to my cunt where no one could see?
My beloved takes a swig of his beer and swipes the image on.
“Fuck.” our friend breathes.
Dream-logic means I know they’ve reached the image he took when I was on all fours, my voluptuous arse presented upwards and he’s got three fingers inside, the thumb just resting against my arsehole. It’s framed so beautifully, you catch the bony curve of his knuckles cradling his cock.
“You should have heard her, squealing into the pillows.”
“You mean you didn’t film it?”
And he gives him a look of indulgent contempt and scrolls on. A classic, my blue eyes wide, mascara and eyeliner smudges around them. Mouth wide too, with his cock prominent between the smeared pink lipstick. I’m smiling, almost. Saliva seeping from the vacuum seal of skin on skin. For me, the memory is vivid and I feel the ghost of his soft, warm flesh on my tongue as I watch them from across the room, swilling sugary cocktails down my throat and thinking about spunk. In the next shot I’ve taken it deeper and he’s wiped the smile across my face. I remember my vision blurred, my ears were ringing, I could only taste and touch. Our friends eyes widen too; unthinkingly he reaches down to the fork in his trousers, which even from my respectful distance seems larger, more cumbersome, and I wonder what the weight of his erection would feel like as my throat constricts, and the taste of him.
“She’s good. Better than good. Amazing. But there’s no fun for her in knowing that.”
I know it. I know I make his knees week with one wicked flicker of my tongue. Let me make you both weak at the knees, I plead silently.
“How would you want her? Shy? Slutty?”
He’s making the image bigger with his fingers.
“Slutty. I want her to choke on it.”
“I can’t see that being a problem. I’ve seen what you’re packing.” and my sweet boy brushes his strong musician’s knuckles against the other’s crotch. Casually, as if this is what good friends do.
“I’d love her to share her gift.”
He knows I recount the scenario often. That he offers me up, and they sit in our cosy living room with me between them and lavish them with kisses, bites and the warm embrace of my pliant throat until one of them steps behind me to lube up their erection and slip it into my cunt or my arse, I don’t care – I don’t! I just want the satisfaction of being pinned between them. Shared.
I tell this story as he fucks me sweetly, in the bed we bought, we built. I whisper the secrets in my filthy brain and feel him thicken to think of his own love desired by others until we think our hearts will burst with love or lust. Another fantasy for another time.
Back in the middle class haven of red wine and PJ Harvey, their vague flirtation ebbs.
“I know that pretty face looks fucking amazing covered in come.”
“It could be a race to see who covers it first.”
“And videoed for posterity, of course.”
The jibe is lightly meant, and they laugh as he scrolls on again and now their eyes are fixed on the tiny screen. The room is abruptly pin-drop quiet and I know I can hear the wet sounds of his cock pistoning in and out of my mouth, his entreating words.
‘Good girl. Such a good girl.’
The sharp breath inhaled through his teeth.
The muffled moans of arousal, frustration and desperation from my throat.
All of them, loud as a roll of midnight thunder, and all eyes on us in our separate corners; their heads low and close, playing that fifteen second clip in an infinite loop that plays on and on and warms my heart and wets my cunt.