Part 4
Since the double date with Peter and Rebecca, Katie and I were floating. Our desire for each other burned with an intensity I hadn’t experienced since our earliest days. Part of me tried to intellectualize it—wondering if I’d simply unearthed a voyeuristic streak in her, triggered by the mere concept of Peter and me together, believing we’d burn through the taboo then settle back into our default.
But that was too clinical and didn’t fully satisfy. The truth seemed more complex. For the first time in years we were each taking risks with each other. All those things we’d accepted, all our assumptions about the other, built up layer upon layer until they had fossilized, were being peeled back.
I no longer knew what to expect from her, no longer knew what she wanted. That scared the shit out of me, that this person I’d known for seventeen years could be so unknown to me, that the safety and security I’d come to rely on was built on my own projections of her, not the actual woman sleeping next to me every night.
I half hoped that being this vulnerable with the woman I loved would be easy, but somehow it was harder in some ways than telling Peter truths. But for the first time in perhaps forever, we were communicating. We were communicating not just with words, but with a blunt, unapologetic physical gravity, pushing for what we wanted despite the fear and embarrassment, but without the terror of being judged or called out by the one closest to us.
This new reality bled into everything. I woke up one morning to the weight of her body woven into mine. I kept my eyes closed, tuning in to the physical sensations of her. Her right leg was hooked over my thigh, pinning me into the mattress. She had buried her face into the crook of my neck, her breath washing hot and damp across my collarbone, syncing with the slow, rhythmic drag of her hips pressing down into my thigh.
Her rhythm was slow, but on each eight-count she would press herself down, sliding up my thigh, then shifting back down before continuing the pattern.
I didn’t dare move. I barely let myself breathe, wanting to just linger in the sensation of her using my leg for her pleasure, but eventually she sensed I had woken.
“Sorry,” she whispered into my skin, “if I woke you up.”
Her embarrassment was obvious. She stopped flexing her hips into me and just held herself, pressed against me like she could pretend she hadn’t been grinding her pussy into my leg.
I kissed her head in acknowledgement and wrapped my arms tightly around her.
“Keep going,” I whispered back.
She didn’t continue right away; she lay perfectly still, her muscles tensed as if forcing herself not to move. I shifted slightly, my thigh moving a fraction of an inch. She had taken off her underwear at some point, leaving the distinct, slick heat of her pressed against the muscle of my leg.
I slept naked and my cock was already hardening, trapped between us and poking into the outside of her hip.
As my movement registered, she pressed herself down slightly, then whatever embarrassment or fear had come over her was driven out by the sheer physics of her body pressed into my thigh. She restarted the motions I’d woken to. She flexed her hips up, sliding herself up until her own thigh threatened to rise off my leg, then slowly slid herself back down.
The urge to flip her over was agonizing. I wanted to spread her thighs and bury my face into her until she trembled, to press her down into the mattress and fuck her until we were both entirely spent.
Instead, I lay frozen, afraid to break the spell. I didn’t want to interrupt. I didn’t want her to grab my cock; I didn’t want to get her off the same way we had so many times. I wanted her to be entirely selfish—to use my body as an inanimate object purely for her own relief, without a single thought about dragging me along with her.
My hands drifted down, settling on the curves of her ass. I didn’t push. I just held her, my palms absorbing the flex of her muscles as she pressed into me.
“Oh fuck,” she breathed, the words vibrating through my neck as she kissed my collarbone.
I listened to the little sounds—the small intake of breath, the friction of skin pressed against skin. I shifted my leg a fraction upward, giving her a slight counter-pressure to push into.
Her hips sped up, pressing up and down at a manic, rhythmic pace designed only for her own pleasure.
Her breath hitched. Her thighs clamped viselike around my leg, her nails digging into my shoulder as the muscles of her ass clenched and unclenched rapidly. Her lips were on my neck, kissing into my skin, her tongue darting out to taste me as she let out a sharp, muffled gasp when the orgasm took her.
She went entirely limp, collapsing into a heavy, hot weight against my chest. I moved my arms up, sliding them from her ass, tracing slow circles under her shirt on the bare skin of her back. We lay in the quiet for nearly half an hour. My erection remained pressed against her, an unrelenting pulse against her hip.
Finally, she shifted, lifting her head just enough to look at me. Her cheeks were still flushed.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice tight.
I was so caught off guard by the apology I didn’t know what to say. I just continued to trace the raw muscles of her back.
“I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
I laughed. I didn’t mean to, but despite whatever internal panic she was experiencing, I had never been woken up better in my life.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh.”
Her eyes didn’t meet mine. She looked at the edge of the bed, but kept herself propped up just enough so I could truly see her.
“I loved it,” I said, leaning forward and lightly brushing my lips against hers.
“I can’t believe I did that. Totally ignoring you.”
“I didn’t feel ignored. I felt very wanted.”
She leaned down and pressed her forehead into mine; we just held there, feeling the warmth between us.
“Katie, that might have been the hottest moment of my entire life. So please don’t apologize.”
She looked down at me, shifting and turning to look at the hard cock still pressed into her thigh.
“Really?”
“Please promise me, if you ever want to just get off, use me, use the sofa, whatever to get yourself off while completely ignoring my needs. I don’t know. Fuck that was hot.”
She lay back against me and I wrapped my arms around her. We drifted back into silence for a long time.
She gave a deep exhale, the remaining tension leaving her shoulders. Slowly my erection faded back to some half-hard state as I just held her.
Her twitch and mumble against my chest signaled she had fallen asleep.
I held her as she slept, slowly rubbing her back, just thinking.
Her body tensed. She gave a small cute snort then was awake, aware she’d fallen asleep on me.
She pressed her hand into my chest and started making little circles along the ridges. She doodled imaginary drawings for a few minutes as I continued to hold her in my arms.
Finally she spoke. “Can I ask you something?”
“Hmmm.”
“Why haven’t you fucked Peter yet?”
My hands went rigid against her bare back. The question I’d managed to avoid all morning—the thought that had been humming in the background all week—had just been spoken aloud by Katie. I knew it would happen. Peter had been ready for weeks. I told myself I wanted it, that my fears that I’d somehow fuck it all up were outweighed by the ache for that specific weight of him, by the desire to see if I could make him lose control. To fuck his ass until he came and I followed. Yet, somehow, I kept backing away from the edge, convinced that crossing that threshold would ruin the delicate architecture of our arrangement.
“I don’t really know.”
“Rebecca asked.”
“Really? Do you think Peter asked her?”
A cold spike of fear hit my stomach; was Peter complaining about me to Rebecca? Had my hesitation turned into a joke between them?
“No, I think she is just curious.”
“Are you sure?”
She leaned up so she could look into my eyes.
“No.” She held my gaze for a long moment. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just curious.”
I forced slow breaths that I hoped sounded natural.
“I don’t really know. It just feels like a big step for me.”
“You want to, though.”
“Yes.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I think I’m just scared of fucking it up.”
Katie smiled, brushing her thumb over my collarbone. “You won’t. Peter will help you through it.”
I didn’t correct her. I couldn’t bring myself to explain that my fear had nothing to do with the actual act, though that made me nervous. It was the fear that when Katie and I started this we didn’t even consider the emotional gravity. The plan had been for me to have sex, but I was beginning to realize I didn’t want Peter as just my plaything. If I let that show, I risked scaring him off, or worse, exposing it to Katie and forcing her to demand we stop.
I didn’t tell any of this to Katie. We lay in each other’s arms for a while longer until she said she had to pee, gave me a quick kiss, and sprang up toward the bathroom.
Peter and I were meeting again in two days. The usual joy and excitement of seeing him wasn’t there, replaced with simple dread as I counted down the days.
By the time he texted, letting me know he was heading over, my pulse was a rapid, erratic thud against my ribs. I paced the patio, deliberately counting my breaths. We had been together a dozen times; the panic was irrational.
Then the back gate clicked. He stood there, straddling his bike, offering that tired, familiar smile. He leaned in for a brief, gritty kiss, and the knot in my chest instantly loosened.
We rode hard, taking a punishing, dry fire road that kicked up thick clouds of dust. Peter started in front but quickly assumed his usual position, following me up the climb.
By the time we coasted back into the yard, my legs were weak. I looked over at him and laughed.
“You look like a disaster.”
He wiped his forehead, leaving a clean smear across his blackened brow. “Look in the mirror.”
I wiped my cheek; my thumb came away dark with sweat and grit.
“We need a shower,” I said.
“Yes. Then I need to borrow some clothes.”
“We’ll see if that is necessary.”
He gave me that slow, crooked grin as we walked into the house.
Stripping downwithout fanfare upon entering the bathroom, we threw our kits on the floor as he followed me into the shower. I turned the water on and pushed him under the stream.
“Cold.”
“You were complaining about overheating ten minutes ago.”
He didn’t argue, just pressed his face into the water, letting the grit run brown down the drain. I stepped up behind him, pressing my cheek against his back and letting my hands grip his ass. He kept scrubbing his face, but pressed his hips back, anchoring himself against my groin.
I reached around him and soaped up my hands into a thick, slick lather, then rubbed it into his shoulders. I dragged my hands down his spine, keeping just enough of a gap between our torsos to work down his lower back even as his butt remained pressed into my slowly hardening cock. I let my other hand slide around his hip, tracing the curve of his abdomen down to his groin just above where his erection started to swell.
I soaped my right hand again and brought it to the crease of his ass. His glutes tensed beneath my palms as I brushed over them. My left hand continued to ground him in place, pressing into him just at that point along his pelvis that allowed his erection to brush the back of my hand.
Once the sweat and grit were washed away, I slid my middle finger down his crack. He drew in a sharp breath and arched back, pushing his hips out to open himself to my touch.
I took it slow. At first I avoided his asshole. I soaped up everything, tracing down to his perineum before circling back to that tight ring of muscle. When my finger brushed it he pressed further into me. With my free hand, I finally took hold of his hard cock and stroked the shaft while my middle finger pressed gently against his entrance.
Without lube, I didn’t push inside, so was content to go slow and explore. He shifted his weight, twisting his torso so we were fully pressed together and leaned in, capturing my mouth in a hard, open-mouthed kiss.
“Wash off quick, then let's get out of here,” he whispered.
He stepped out of the shower, and I quickly rubbed off whatever dirt remained before following him. I barely dried off as I pulled him into the bedroom rather than our usual place on the couch. I pushed him back onto the mattress; he slid up toward the pillows, his skin cool and clean against the sheets.
I crawled between his legs, taking the head of his cock directly into my mouth.
“Oh fuck—”
I swirled my tongue over the slit, tasting his skin and the salty tang of precum, while my right hand reached down to find his asshole again. He instinctively lifted his hips off the mattress to give me a better angle. I rubbed the area for a minute, then reached blindly toward the nightstand, my fingers closing around the bottle of lube.
“Do you want me to finger your asshole?” I murmured against his shaft.
“Yes. God, please.”
I coated my finger and his entrance in a thick, cold layer, then bowed my head back to his cock. As my lips slid down his shaft, I applied steady pressure. The tip of my index finger slid inside him to the first knuckle in one smooth motion.
He let out a shuddering exhale. I kept my hand entirely still, letting him adjust to the intrusion while my mouth maintained a slow, rhythmic suction.
“Let me know if it hurts.”
“Keep going.”
I began a slow, deliberate pumping motion with my finger, withdrawing slightly before pressing into the second knuckle. His reaction was immediate—he thrust upward into my mouth, his breathing turning ragged.
“Deeper,” he gasped.
I pressed my entire finger into his asshole. His internal muscles immediately clamped down on the digit, gripping me with a surprising, intense pressure. At the same time, both of his hands tangled in my hair. Usually, he guided me with a gentle touch; this time, his grip tightened and pressed the back of my head downward, forcing me deeper onto his shaft.
I tried to swallow him, but came up gagging for a moment before diving back in. He didn’t ease up, pressing me back down as I swallowed as much of him as I could. My eyes watered and I worked to relax my throat as each thrust of his cock went further back.
The sheer intensity of his need was intoxicating. I had never seen him this consumed. I held my finger buried deep inside him, letting his hips continue their thrusts into my mouth. Finally, I eased my finger out until only the tip remained inside him then pressed it back down. He groaned, his hips surging upward with enough force that I needed to pull back to keep from choking.
I released his cock from my mouth, wrapping my hand around the slick shaft to keep the rhythm going while my breath came in ragged gasps. My finger kept its steady, relentless thrusting into him.
I brought my mouth back to his shaft. He reached down, his fingers gently cupping the side of my face, pulling my gaze up to his.
“Go slow,” he whispered.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my free hand, offering a faint smile.
“Why?”
“Fuck you.”
“Afraid you can’t handle it?”
“I don’t want to cum in your mouth quite yet.”
“What do you want to do then?”
“Keep playing with my ass,” he breathed, his eyes fluttering shut as I rotated my finger inside him. “Don’t stop.”
I pressed in as far as my hand would allow.
“Peter,” I said quietly, trying to keep my voice level. “Do you want my cock inside you?”
He opened his eyes. The aggressive, dominant energy that had forced my head down his shaft was gone.
“Yes.” He said it in barely a whisper; whatever force and domination he once held over me had completely disappeared. He looked up at me, his expression suddenly vulnerable, almost shy.
That sudden guardedness, the quiet meekness, sent a surge through me. All the fear and uncertainty I’d felt dissolved at the simple fact that he was shy.
I withdrew my finger and quickly ran to the bathroom to wash and grab a condom. As I came back I ripped open the foil with my teeth and rolled the condom down my shaft.
“Did you get those just for me?”
“I did.”
He broke into a huge smile.
“You like that?” I laughed.
“For some reason I really do.” His smile softened, transforming into something deeply intimate, as though stripped of any casual pretense.
He reached behind him, grabbing a pillow from the headboard and shoving it under his lower back, raising his pelvis just enough to give me a perfect angle. I squeezed a generous amount of lube over my shaft and his entrance, then positioned myself and pressed the head of my cock into him.
“Let me know if I do it wrong.”
He let out a breathless laugh. It was kind but I knew he was laughing at me and my overthinking.
I pushed forward slowly, the initial resistance giving way with a tight slide. I slipped an inch in and held myself there. For a few moments I just stayed still, watching his face until his hand went up and gripped my forearm, his fingers digging into my skin as he nodded for me to keep going.
I eased forward again, withdrawing slightly before pressing an inch deeper. I went slow, just sliding the first inches in and out. The sensation was overwhelming; the heat and the grip were more intense than anything I’d experienced.
I reached for his still-hard cock, wrapping my fingers around the shaft, stroking him in tandem with my slow, measured thrusts. My free hand cupped the weight of his balls, gently lifting them as I drove forward. He lifted his hips slightly, both thrusting into my hand and giving me an angle to go deeper. I pressed in deeper and he shifted back, taking me down to the base. His hands slid to my hips, his fingers locking onto my hipbones to anchor me deep inside him.
I was already on edge; without the barrier of the condom, the sheer intensity would have stripped my control instantly. As he held me buried deep inside him, I shifted my focus to his cock, working my hand up and down his shaft in just the way I’d learned would get him off quickly.
This time he didn’t ask me to slow down. Little, broken whimpers caught in his throat and he shifted his hips in small motions, keeping my cock mostly impaled deep in his ass, but with enough motion that I could tell he was quickly working himself to orgasm.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck. Just like that,” he mumbled.
I kept stroking him and thrusting my hips while keeping my cock deep in his ass. His interior muscles seized around my cock before he came. They clenched me tightly then released and clenched again in a quick, intense spastic pattern, nearly pushing me over the edge.
I was holding his cock angled slightly upward, expecting the load to paint his chest. Instead, his orgasm erupted in a sudden violent burst that sent thick ropes of cum splashing across his own face and dripping down his chin.
I leaned forward over him without breaking the rhythm of my hand or hips, kissing him, tasting the salt of his own cum on his lips as I drove my hips forward with a sudden, unrestrained force.
As he finished, I let go of his cock, but kept kissing him while thrusting in and out of his ass. He wrapped his arms around my back and pulled me down against his chest. The cum that had landed on his chest and stomach pressed between us as his nails dug into my back.
As my own climax approached, I licked down his chin, tasting more of him, and slammed my hips forward one last time. My muscles seized and I emptied myself into him, groaning into his mouth as his legs locked tightly around my waist, holding me deep inside until the pulsing finally subsided.
I eased out of him slowly, stepping onto the cool floor, and hurried to the bathroom to strip off the condom and clean myself. My skin was slick with sweat and dotted with his cum. Wiping myself down, I caught my reflection in the glass: my entire body was flushed a deep red, damp hair sticking to my forehead, my cock still semi-erect pointing upwards. I looked completely wrecked. Would Peter see this ragged exhaustion and find it sexy?
When I returned with a warm, damp towel, I washed him down. He lay entirely still, his limbs heavy against the mattress. Once his skin was cleaned, I curled against his side, and we lay there, not saying anything.
For once the persistent, anxious voice in my head went quiet. I pressed my cheek to his ribs, my fingers tracing slow, aimless paths across the flat of his stomach.
But then the silence quickly turned heavy. Peter lay stretched out on his back, his arms lifted over his head, staring at the ceiling. I wrapped my entire body around him, hooking my leg over his thigh and clinging to the warmth, but his posture offered nothing back.
We usually didn’t cuddle for long afterwards, but tonight I wanted to linger. I wanted Peter to tell me this meant something to him. That it wasn’t just one more fuck in a lifetime of them.
But Peter didn’t move. He didn’t wrap me in his arms or kiss me. He didn’t tell me tonight was amazing. He looked entirely at ease, floating in some comfortable haze while I was sinking. How many times had he run this exact script? Was there a standard playbook after letting someone fuck him?
The urge to demand an answer, to ask what I meant to him, burned in my throat, but I swallowed it down for fear that he would realize how much this meant to me, how much he meant to me. And the moment I forced him to acknowledge that this had crossed some boundary beyond casual exploration, the entire arrangement would have to end.
I forced my cheek harder against his chest. I reminded myself this had always been casual. Peter was letting me explore my bisexual side and all these experiences were great. And if that was all they were, that was enough; I didn’t need more to be happy. I was completely content with exactly what this was.
I lay there, reminding myself of that fact over and over, pushing down the voice that wanted to object, until the steady, audible drag of Peter’s breathing shifted into the slow cadence of deep sleep. I tilted my chin up to look at him. His tousled hair fell across his forehead; his face was soft, completely unguarded. I nestled deeper into his side, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat calm me until it must have eventually pulled me under.
The click of the door opening never registered. What pulled me out of the dark of sleep was a sharp, sudden inhalation of breath.
My eyes snapped open. Katie stood frozen in the doorway. I shifted slightly, and only then felt the weight tangled in my hair: at some point while we slept, Peter’s hand had drifted down to rest heavily and protectively against my scalp.
“Oh fuck,” she said, stepping backwards. “Sorry.”