MÉNAGE À TROIS: This is what it’s like

This is what it’s like to be married for fifteen years. It’s the summer solstice and twilight edges in late, settling on the deck where you stay up late with your husband and Mike, drinking and talking. You share a joint ¹. Later, you and your husband fool around even though the two of you are camped out in the living room, where your children could catch you in the act. The act, in this case, is you blowing your husband. ²

Mike sleeps in the adjoining room. Or he might not be asleep, you allow yourself to think as you clean yourself up. His shirt hangs on the towel rack and you lean over to breathe in its smell. When you return to bed, your husband is in the first twitchy stages of sleep. You lie awake, the taste of aluminum and wine in your mouth. You consider getting up to get some water, but decide it would be too much effort. Finally, you let go and fall into a deep, dehydrated sleep.

Someone is rubbing your arm. The moment comes to you in patches: you’re not in your bedroom, you’re in the living room; it’s not morning yet, but it’s close to it; someone is rubbing your arm. It’s your husband. He bends into your neck and kisses it. He pulls at your nipple. You’d rather sleep, but you arch against him anyway. When he speaks, his voice is low and sure. He tells you to go to the bedroom and to leave the door open.

So you do. Mike is sleeping. You know that your husband is awake and listening. You sit on the edge of the bed. Your mouth is dry and you wish you had gotten a glass of water on the way. You rest your hand on Mike’s hip and study the tattoo reaching up his back. He always did sleep so soundly, the sleep of the spent. But you would lie awake listening to the hum of the night, your mind a swirl and your body taut. You used to resent his sleep. His farawayness gave him peace but left you lonely and agitated with shame and desire.

Now you watch him in repose and feel protective of this strong man with the lousy lungs. You know that if you slip into bed next to him he will probably reach for you, but what if he doesn’t? The possibility of humiliation sends a warm flush through your stomach and groin. In the suspended quiet you can feel your husband listening from the room next door.

Finally, you slip into bed and nestle into Mike’s back. You’re hyperaware of every creak and rustle, every sound a message to your husband. Mike shifts, still sleeping. You stroke his arm and press yourself against his ass. It’s enough. He stirs, then rolls around to face you, grabs your ass with one hand and reaches into your panties with the other. What are you doing? he asks, and it would sound like a reprimand if he didn’t already have a finger in your pussy. It’s OK, you say. He sent me in here, you say, your fingers combing through his hair, bringing him toward you. He kisses you hard and pulls you on top of him. He’s already pulled his cock out and it’s straining against your panties, which are damp from the two of you. When he squeezes your nipples, you gasp. ³ He twists them harder and a drop of milk emerges. He pulls you down and licks the droplet, then bites the nipple. It almost sends you over the edge. You want to fuck him immediately, but guess that your husband has a blow job in mind, so you pull back and scoot down between Mike’s legs.

You grab his hips and breathe in the humid tang of his groin. You exhale softly and his cock twitches in response. You tongue his inner thigh, his balls, the length of his cock. The tip of his cock is wet, and you indulge in one full mouthful of him, pulling the whole length of him into your throat. He groans and grabs at the back of your head, forcing himself still deeper so that you can feel his balls against your lips. You pause, filled with all of it—the smell of Mike and the heat of his cock, the sound of your husband quietly masturbating in the other room, the memory of having your husband in your mouth just an hour before. It’s dirty, and it’s love.

You slowly pull Mike’s cock out of your mouth and shift down to suck on his balls. The skin is smooth-soft and papery; his balls are firm but he resists keeping them in your mouth. You can’t remember if he likes this, but as he pulls your head closer you know it’s ok. You’re squirming and would have fucked and come already if it weren’t for your husband, who deserves whatever experience he’s craving. You grip Mike’s hips and run your tongue along the length of his cock. He grabs your head, pushes himself deep into your mouth. His hips gyrate as his cock reaches into the depths of your throat. He pulls out, plunges back in, over and over, his hands gripping your hair, fiercely pulling your head into his groin.

Then he pulls your head up and looks in your eyes. He pulls you to him slowly and kisses you. The kiss has the silkiness of his pre cum. It’s a slow deep kiss, all tongue and teeth.

Suddenly, he’s pulling you up off him, and flipping you onto your back. He hovers over you and his eyes say: Yes. The head of his cock presses against your cunt, which is slick and swollen. He stares into your eyes while he slowly pushes himself into you. He pulls your hair hard as he moves deeper and deeper into your cunt. It’s excruciatingly slow and you tilt your pelvis up to take in more of him. When he slips a finger into your anus, you moan. He begins to rock into you, faster and faster, until he is pounding you so hard that your body is all pain and heat and desire and you, who are so used to keeping sex quiet so as not to wake the children, lose yourself completely.

After, you kiss and you make your way back to the living room. You are sweaty and achy and filled with Mike’s cum. You lie down next to your husband, who slips a finger, then another, and another into your cunt. You reach down and slide in one of your own fingers alongside his. You kiss and grope and he fingers you until you both start to lose focus and fall asleep.

In the morning, your husband nudges you onto your stomach, spreads your legs, places his finger in your mouth, pushes your head down into the cushions, and fucks you. You come quietly, then drift back to sleep.

When you wake up, the two of them are at the kitchen table. The French press is drained, but your empty cup is set out. Their hushed tones abruptly end as they both meet your gaze and stand up to make another pot.

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