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overlookedfile · 14 days ago

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Yeet!

I probably shouldn't be posting this anywhere at all, but I'm plagued by the curse of the writer: when I manage to finish something that I actually like, I really need to put it out into the world.

So, here's the disclaimer:

For anyone who knows me IRL and particularly so if it involves my work, you're probably going to recognize the coworker I had in mind while writing this even though I've changed the names. However, you're also likely to realize "He would never!" pretty quickly, too. That's because while this is inspired by my affection for a real life individual, the character in this story is just that: a character in a story. A work of fiction, from start to finish. This in no way should be taken as a reflection of the real person. It also should not be mistaken for evidence of any intent on my part to pursue him IRL; I have no such intent, just as he has no interest in me IRL.

And if you don't want to know about some of my actual kinks, then I also strongly advise against reading.

Story below (explicit, 1st Person POV)

Fantasy Fiction #01 - "Wingman Threesome"

It's always a little bit of chaos as the work days come to a close, a couple hundred staff and a few thousand attendees variably focused on getting home or trying to grab the last minutes with friends before parting ways for another month. Or, in my own case, trying not to yield to exhaustion before finding a reasonable dinner somewhere between the venue and hotel.

And there's no creature more ruled by familiarity than one halfway to fugue state, so it's back to the same place I've eaten at eight out of the twelve nights I've been in town.

It's a little busy, but one of the servers recognizes me and waves towards 'my table' - the one I've sat at seven of those eight times - as she grabs a bin and a rag. I offer a wane smile while she works. As soon as she's done, I'm slouching over my elbows on the table.

"Long day?" she asks. I figure it’s eighty percent customer server, five percent habit, and maybe five percent genuine interest.

"Yeah. Last one, though. We leave out tomorrow."

"Well, we'll be sorry to see you go. Just you tonight?"

"Yeah, sorry. They've got ungodly early flights."

My phone chirps and another little piece of my soul withers away, but I check it.

~ Mitchell (@9:32)

Are you done yet?

Oh. That's not so bad.

~ Me

Yup. Just sat down to dinner.

~ Mitchell

Where at?

~Me

Same place as last night. It's just me, though.

He reacts to the message with a 'thumbs up' as a drink is set down in front of me. I hadn't even noticed she'd walked away.

I take the soda like it's the only thing that can preserve my sanity. It might actually be. "Thanks."

"Are you ready to order?"

"I think another coworker might join me. Give it ten minutes, maybe?" I pull a number of bills from my wallet. "This should cover tonight. No change."

"Are all of you this cutthroat about paying for each other's meals?"

"It's a known hazard of going out to eat with people in my department," I laugh.

"I need more coworkers like you," she jokes.

It's mind numbing games on a phone rapidly running out of charge while I wait and I can't honestly say whether it's been ten minutes or two when she comes back around to refill my drink, so I check the time. It's 9:50. It’s only two minutes to the hotel, assuming that’s where he was.

"Still want to wait?"

"Nah. He probably fell in with another group or something. I'll ha- oh, hey."

Sidling by the end of the bar, Mitchell drags back the chair diagonal from me and sinks into it. "Have you ordered, yet?"

I shake my head. "Was just about to."

"If you know what you want to drink, I can get it while you decide the rest," she offers.

He orders a beer and she's gone.

"One more word about work and I'm gonna lose my mind," he remarks as he browses what's on offer.

I give a weak laugh. Most of the people who work these events are happy to submerge themselves completely in the demands of it, myself included, but he's always been clear that he's of a different mind once the daily obligations are met.

"Who'd you run into?"

"Who wasn't in the lobby?" he quips back.

"Fair enough."

I engage in the mild chitchat of which entrees look good, which I've tried and which I haven't, but after we place our respective orders with the server there lapses a silence. It's not uncomfortable to me, maybe because I barely notice it, but it takes a minute to refocus- or maybe just to focus at all- when he speaks.

"You look exhausted."

"Hmm?" I blink for a minute as details trickle in like Lego bricks being dumped in a bin: haphazardly and without really coming together. "Yeah, well, tomorrow makes fourteen days, so..." I shrug, yawn, and belatedly stifle the yawn on my already raised shoulder. "I'm so glad I can sleep late tomorrow."

"You drove?"

"Always." That thought bumps into the bubble of another. "Oh! I got a couple new things for my bike."

"Like what?"

"A new windshield, for one. Apparently the new helmet takes the wind differently from the old one, so I got a taller windscreen. I also added a couple cameras just for the fun of it."

"A GoPro?"

"On my helmet, because I already had that one, but also a three-sixty camera on the bike itself. I think I'm gonna make a trip out to Deal's Gap in the fall and see if I can get some nice shots of the leaves changing."

"Have you been out there before?"

"A couple times, but not on the bike. I've been a little skittish since the last wreck, honestly, so I wanted to wait until that passed. I figure the only thing more obnoxious than falling off the mountain would be falling in front of a damn Miata."

He chuckles with me. "Is your husband going to ride with you?"

"Probably not. He sold his bike and has been saying he doesn't want another one."

"Why not?"

"He just wasn't riding it the last few years and it needed some work after sitting so long." I shrug. "He might bring the car up, though. Maybe turn it into a weekend away instead of a day trip."

"How far are you from there?" His brow furrows and I know he's trying to decide if his memory of where I live is faulty. If he has any actual recollection of that information, I'll be surprised.

"It's about seven hours or so."

Food arrives before the topic can progress and we both spend some minutes giving it our undivided attention. It is the only reason I'm resisting the siren call of sleep, after all. Well, it was when I walked in, anyway.

I like Mitchell more than I should.

I don't really know much about him besides a handful of superficial things: that he rides a motorcycle, has a college degree, and has been working these events longer than most. But the other stuff, personal stuff like whether he is or has ever been married, or has ever wanted to be? Whether he's on the aromantic spectrum or it's just that I've only seen him in environments that hold no interest for him? Pets? Family life? Number of siblings? No clue. We've technically worked together for years, but they're not topics that have ever come up on the somewhat rare occasion we interact.

He's steady and funny, though, a calming presence when my brain is trying to go off like pop rocks in a can of soda. He's also easy on the eyes, tall and broad with the best little grin.

Sometimes, when he's between tasks in his own department, he'll come socialize (or escape having to socialize) in mine. I'm sure it's because of the comfortable chairs, centralized location, and the snacks that are usually available. But hey, food, comfort, and strategic location choice are proven concepts when trying to befriend feral animals, so why should it be much different with people?

Unfortunately, I'm not his type. I know that from an earlier conversation, which at least has saved me the trouble of asking. Like his degree and his motorcycle, he enjoys things that are classic and classy. More along the lines of Marilyn Monroe, which is one hundred percent understandable, because who isn't attracted to her at least a little? But I haven't been blonde nor had long hair in over two decades. I also don't have a reputation for great manners or being particularly feminine. I've mostly given up on being any of those things; it's just not me.

It hasn't stopped me from thinking about him, though, whether I want to or not.

Sex is almost always on my mind, to be fair, but it's more like an ever ongoing thought experiment. However explicit the ideas, I'm rarely inclined to make them a reality, and even when I am it's still more like passing curiosity than a need to be satiated. Not regarding him, though. I had never been so aroused I couldn't sleep until I started thinking about him. I've figured out how to get to sleep. I haven't figured out how to stop the fantasies.

Even so, I have realistic expectations (or the lack of expectations, really) when it comes to Mitchell. He's not interested in me and I can respect that, even if I don't necessarily want to.

"What about you?" I ask.

"What about me?"

"Have you ridden the Dragon?"

The conversation meanders just like the aforementioned road. We do circle back to a couple of work matters, but obliquely, discussing more the people and the process than the situations themselves, before trailing off to other overlapping interests. Not that there are very many, but I know at least a little about a lot of different subjects and I'm happy to listen to him talk.

He's got a rich voice and an enthralling cadence, a way of giving each word its own character and tone, yet it all still comes together- like music or a painting- in a multitude of layers to convey a depth of meaning beyond whatever statement or question he's put out there. I don't think I've met anyone else who can convey their passion for a given subject with an equal amount of dismissiveness. I haven't quite put my finger on what he's dismissive about, exactly, - Other's lack of awareness? That events inevitably repeat themselves? - but I still enjoy the challenge.

Hell, it might just be my own sarcastic humor that provokes it. Predictably, he's unimpressed with my joke about Lars Ulrich being an underrated drummer. (I stand by the assertion that skill is important, but being an inspiration to others is equally so. Really, though, it's only said to get a rise out of him. I'm successful on that front.)

He's just started into a diatribe (I think it's about the importance of quality role models, which is cute, but still a diatribe) when there's an unholy screech from far too close. We both flinch away, heads swiveling in bewilderment toward the noise, to see a woman at the nearest bar stool covering her mouth and desperately trying to stifle her giggles.

She glances our way - hard not to notice that we had a reaction when we're only a couple of feet from her - and I make eye contact. The body language, the way the guy she was leaning on has taken his drink and left the area, the gawd-awful cackle. I get it; sometimes people have a way of saying that exact thing that catches you so off guard you laugh in their face without meaning to. Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory and all that.

I can't help it. I smirk, holding her gaze as I dip my head and tap the brim of my hat with my fingertips. I'm not quite sure how to define her reaction, a widening of the eyes as she looks away. Still, I turn back to Mitchell and he's looking at me with a raised eyebrow. I raise one in return with a shrug, still smirking.

"Girls just wanna have fun," I tease.

He huffs, sarcastic but not unkind. "Not that much fun."

We've moved on to some topic that goes completely out of my head when the woman suddenly sits herself down across from me. She spares a quick, "Hello," for Mitchell, but turns so that her posture is twisted and inclined toward me as though we're to be joined in conspiracy.

"I hope you don't mind me joining you. You just looked like you'd be a sympathetic ear after that fiasco."

I'm bad with ages, but I'd guess she's in her early forties. She clearly knows the difference between make-up which obscures and make-up which accentuates and has kept on the flattering side of that. She's naturally pretty, regardless, a ponytail blonde who obviously takes great care of herself, a few intentionally loose and carefully sculpted coils of pale gold framing her face. An office professional of some kind, most likely. I wouldn't be surprised if she was a cheerleader once, but I think the few extra pounds she carries now are an improvement if so, giving her a subtle softness.

I know that tone, though- I've heard it one too many times at local bars- and it immediately kills any interest I might have had under other circumstances. I don't have the energy tonight to be anyone's sexual awakening.

I look to Mitchell very briefly. He has leaned back and is regarding the two of us with open amusement, safe to do so out of her line of sight. It's not the best idea I've ever had, but if I can pull it off...

"By all means." I gesture that she's welcome to stay. "Was it as bad as it sounded?"

"Did you hear what he said?" I shake my head in the negative, so she continues. "He told me if I didn't choke on the whiskey, he'd let me choke on something else later."

"Wwwoooooowwww." I can't help drawing the word out, a cover for my laughter. Quietly, Mitchell is reacting much the same. "A real gentleman, that one."

"Right?" She shakes her head in disbelief. "I don't mind the audacity, but there have to be so many better lines he could have tried."

"Sure," I agree. I'm rarely eloquent when I speak, but sometimes wit pulls me through before I can overthink it. "Maybe something like..." I lower my voice and linger over the words. I don't exactly do sultry, but I can manage suggestive, I think. "'Do you think you'll purr for me when I've got my tongue on you?" I roll the word 'purr' in emulation of the sound, breathy and soft. "Or maybe-" I attempt a more innocent tone. "-I'd hate to strain your voice. We'll just have to find a way to keep you quiet while I make you ruin the sheets." I laugh. "I mean, anything would be better than that whiskey thing."

I've startled them both, I can tell. Her positively and him...not? I'm not sure whether he's alarmed or traumatized or something else, only seeing him in my peripheral, and I don't expect to figure it out anyway. Either it'll come up in conversation another time or he'll start avoiding me. I resolve not to worry about it at the moment.

There's nothing tentative about the interest I can see in her eyes, despite how she couches her next words. "The way you say that, I'd almost think you've been with a woman before."

"A few," I admit. "Why don't you tell me what you're looking for? It might be closer than you think."

"Oh, you know, just a little adventure. I'm only in town for a couple nights, so I thought maybe I should have some fun while I'm here."

"I know that feeling." Regrettably, the one I'd like to be having said fun with is busy averting his face. It's as good a time as any to shift the direction of things. "I've gotta be honest, though, I talk a better game than I give. I'm all bark, so to speak."

"No…?" It doesn't sound like she wants to believe me, but she's not completely rejecting the notion, either. Good.

"'Afraid so, but it's not all bad news. If I'm the bark, Mitchell here is the bite you're looking for." I lift my chin in his direction in case she misses the obvious-to-me cue.

It's only because she has to turn half way round to look at him properly that he has time to dismiss the shock from his face. A faint smirk, a not quite raised eyebrow, and a slight cant of his body away from hers while steadily meeting her gaze. He always does an impressive job of looking simultaneously disinterested and curious when he's waiting to see where a situation is headed.

"Hi," she says more politely this time, offering her hand.

He takes it, a brief grasp more than a full handshake, and I don't think any of us miss that she clocks their irrefutable size difference; her slow withdraw from the contact gives me reason to hope it's a favorable observation. His, "Hello," is on the friendly side of neutral, what I'd describe as unassuming but open to possibility.

"If you really want a good time..." I let the sentence fade a tiny bit, allowing room for innuendo and assumption to do some of the heavy lifting. "Th-"

Her phone goes off and judging by her expression it's not a ringtone she wants to hear. She's hasty to excuse herself and step away, but she's barely out of earshot when Mitchell leans across the table.

"What are you doing?" he demands, halfway trying to whisper but seemingly too agitated to manage it.

"Being a surprise wingman?"

"She's interested in you."

"But I'm not interested in her," I reply. "Besides, she's your type, right?"

"She's not gonna go for a bait and switch."

"Hey, I've promised her nothing from me. You're the one who's got to rise to the occasion." He rolls his eyes at the obvious and unfunny word play. I don't blame him, even if it still amuses me. "I mean, if you want me to stop, just say so. We could walk out right now and avoid the whole thing, if you'd rather."

"We've still got to-" He stops mid-sentence and glares at me. "You've already paid, haven't you?"

"Before you even sat down," I confirm.

He apparently decides to let it go for now. "Have you realized there's a couple of problems with your plan?"

"What's that?"

"For one, I have a roommate who's going to appreciate an uninvited guest about as much as I'd appreciate an audience. Two, I don't normally travel to these things with that kind of protection."

"Oh, she's definitely got condoms."

"How do you know?"

"Does she look like the type to wait on a man to provide anything for her?" He acknowledges that with a head tilt. "Besides, odds are she wants to go back to her room."

"And if she doesn't?"

I wrack my brain to remember what kind of state I've left my hotel room in. "I reckon I can give you my keycard, if you promise to use the bed nearest the door instead of mine, but I'll still need to grab my stuff tomorrow."

"Where are you going to sleep?"

I shrug. "I've got options." I've got my car, but I don't think there's a way to say that which isn't awkward as hell.

"You don't find this just a little weird? You, setting me up with a woman that wants to sleep with you?"

"Buddy, we've got very different barometers for weird. If I was going to follow up with her about what you're like in bed, that would be weird. But I'm rather hoping to never see her again after this." I shake my head. "Other than that? She wants sex. I don't. I figured you might. It doesn't seem that complicated to me. I mean, would you be questioning it if Ben was setting you up with someone?"

"Yes, actually."

"Sounds like a ‘you’ problem, then." I jerk my thumb in the direction of the nearest exit. "You just wanna bail?"

"No, no. I'm invested now. I want to see how this turns out."

I can't help a laugh as he leans back in his chair again. Fishing out my spare room key, I slide it across the table. "Four-eighteen."

He hesitates, but he's pocketing it when she rejoins us at the table. "Sorry about that," she apologizes, addressing us both. "Work, you know?" Her tone implies what an imposition her job can be.

I'm sure we all know that feeling. "A hundred percent."

"I'm enjoying the banter," she remarks and I immediately foresee that her desire has shifted elsewhere. Instead, she says, "But do you think we can skip ahead a little and get out of here? I don't know how far it is to your hotel."

Mitchell shoots me a knowing look, but I just sit back with a smile. It's a problem already solved, after all. "No worries. You two have fun," I tell them.

Her expression falls. "You're not coming, too? I thought..." She looks between the two of us and makes a subtle but unmistakable gesture.

"No." I give her a polite laugh, one I hope she doesn't mistake as being at her expense, but my heartbeat is uncomfortable in my chest. "We're just coworkers. I'm sure you'll enjoy his undivided attention better, anyway.” I’m compelled to add, “Besides, spontaneous threesomes can be a logistical nightmare."

And genuinely, they can. If everyone's not on the same page and cool with the same acts in compatible ways, or if there are feelings involved, it's easy for the experience to turn sour. Been there, done that. Not eager to repeat it.

"It's just-" I know from her tone, sweet and a touch too innocent, that she's trying to manipulate us. I know with certainty what she's going to suggest and I've already got another demurral on the back of my tongue for her. "Are you sure? I don't know that I can handle a big guy like him all by myself."

My brain short circuits. It shouldn't. I anticipated this (sort of - not those specific words). I've planned to send them off alone ever since she first sat down. But that image...

I've never taken particular care to hide my internal reactions, so I'm sure all this shock and lust must show in my face.

My skin is tingling. I'm drowning. I can't hear a thing. Not even my heart, although I can feel its thunder. Definitely not the conversation that follows.

They're talking and so am I, but I've got no idea what's being said. It's like someone's turned on a powerful electro-magnet next to me and as hard as I try to comprehend it all, the tape in my brain is being erased faster than the information can be written.

The world and awareness filter back in in much the same way that water drains out of one's ears: slowly and with an accompanying unease. I don't know what I was staring at - Mostly just in the vague direction of my bed, I think. The covers are still all to one side, the way I left them this morning. - and I belatedly realize Mitchell has said something. Auto-pilot has turned itself off, though, so I've no concept of what he wants.

I turn my head to look at him sitting on the foot of the other bed. "Huh?"

"Are you okay?"

Not at all and whole-heartedly yes...so maybe? "All good," I assert. Finally, I turn toward him. "So what's the plan?"

I'm scrambling for clues. His tie is in his hand and I can hear her moving around in the bathroom. He's got to be about to tell me to grab my stuff and leave, right? We couldn't both have agreed to the alternative. That would be insane.

Right?

"You tell me. You're the bisexual with experience with this stuff."

Oh. Shit. There's another little glitch in my brain, but it doesn't check out completely this time. Distantly, I'm glad I can't get an erection to betray just how emphatically my body is responding to this.

"Okay, so, I figure the loose plan is we'll both focus on her," I suggest. "I'll follow your lead and try to stay out of your way, with the goal being that you two get yours."

"Just us?" Dismissal of my own pleasure apparently doesn't make much immediate sense to him. Which is sweet, but not helpful.

I lower my voice a little, even though I don't think I can be heard over the running water in the sink. "I mean, I'm not your type and she's not mine, so." I lift my hands, implying the conclusion is so obvious it doesn't warrant mentioning.

"Okay." He doesn't seem convinced, but it's not a significant enough point to argue over. "Any positions you recommend, then, Ms. Expert?"

So, so many. None of which I want to say aloud. How did we even get to the point of having this discussion?

"I mean..." That mental image just isn't going to go away, is it? "How do you feel about reverse cowgirl?"

I can't help looking as she exits the bathroom, so I miss Mitchell's reaction both to my question and her appearance. She might not be my type, but I'm always appreciative of sexual aesthetics. Her blouse is undone, revealing rosy lace and delicate straps, and her skirt has been nudged just far enough down her hips to tease us with the other half of the matching set. There's a soft flush to her skin. Not just her cheeks, but over her collarbones, too.

She knows she's attractive, but I suspect she needs to be reminded.

"Mmm, beautiful." Being the closer of the two of us, I extend a hand by way of invitation and she accepts. I set my hat by the television. Mitchell puts his glasses on the nightstand.

It's only a gentle nudge to get her to face Mitchell and settle her between us. She's a little taller than I am (most people are), but that's okay. I kiss the back of her neck as his hands replace mine on her hips.

I'm in hell.

Intellectually, I knew I'd have to pay attention to whatever he did in order to compliment his efforts. If his hands are up high, for instance, then mine should be down low, and vice versa as the situation develops. I thought I could remain detached about it. I didn't count on her being anything but a pillow princess.

She's vocal, which I always enjoy when it's genuine (or at least seems so - I'm not arrogant enough to think I can always tell the difference), and she's eager. She's got his shirt halfway off before I can finish sliding hers from her shoulders and there's no respite when I step away to drape it over the chair because she's already beckoning me to return. He's murmuring things against her skin which I'm desperately trying not to listen to while she shimmies out of her skirt. The hooks of her bra release under my fingers. I pull the garment away, encouraging her to raise her arms as he covers the newly revealed flesh with his broad hands.

I always set my hotel thermostat to sixty-five degrees or less the moment I check in, but right now it feels like it's twice that. She's warm, but I feel scalded every time my fingers brush against him and I'm doing everything I can to keep my distance without insulting her. Meanwhile, she's reaching for his belt.

I have to close my eyes. Neither of them can see my face, thankfully, so I disguise the moment of weakness by pressing more kisses along her spine. I want to go to my knees right now, but that also feels wrong. I don't want to exert any influence over what they're doing with each other.

Neutral. Unoffensive. That's the goal.

God help me, he's standing up to shuck his pants (which makes sense, because removing them while seated is a skill that I wouldn't expect him to have practiced) and I have to keep my focus on the small of her back where I'm rubbing little circles with my thumbs or he's bound to see what I'm really thinking. She puts the nail in my coffin by shoving him back onto the bed hard enough for him to sprawl.

It catches us both off guard, concern forcing my gaze to his face and the excited surprise I find there. It burns into my mind.

I should've left when I had the chance. To hell with being nice to either of them.

It's much too late now.

She's crawling forward, straddling his thighs, glancing back at me, and I know my decision is already made even before I curl my fingers around her last bit of modesty. There's a delicate clasp on each side and the scrap of material falls away. She takes each of us by the hand, pulling us where she wants us as she leans back against me.

My hand gets there first, dipping far between her legs, three fingers questing, guiding her folds apart as I drag carefully upwards without disturbing the internal condom she's taken the effort to use. Presenting her. I don't know if he's ever encountered that particular contraceptive method, but I assume not given the momentary confusion which knits his brows.

"Told you she'd have the precautions covered," I joke approvingly, nibbling on her earlobe. My middle finger curls over her clit and she gives us a little moan, her hips rocking forward.

Mitchell's a guy who doesn't seem to spend much time worrying about the unimportant stuff; if it's not his problem to solve, it's not really a problem. So he grabs her hip and presses a finger inside her, his palm trapping my hand to its task as well. There's a tension in his face and, if her gasps and shivers are any indication, his concentration is being well spent.

She hasn't surrendered, though, not by a long shot. I'm glad I can't see between their bodies. What I can feel is overwhelming enough. The flex of her shoulder as she strokes him. His late-in-the-day stubble as he again takes into his mouth her breast that I was caressing. Even his calf against mine as I stand at the foot of the bed is too much, because it means I'm so close yet so very far from where I want to be.

Every little breath or grunt or moan that escapes him kills another piece of me.

When she decides she's had enough of these particular affections, and after having finally gotten the last of his clothes off, she all but pushes his hands away. She's turning quickly, both hands finding their way into my hair, and there's something grounding about having her lips on mine. His hands and mine are together on her hips, my tongue in her mouth, and that makes the next part easier somehow. It doesn't occur to me to even consider if she heard my suggestion from before she walked into the room. All I know is I like where she's taken us.

He's hot and heavy against my palm, my fingers curling around his length as I find her clit with my thumb. I'm disconnected from my actions again, operating on instinct rather than conscious decision, but this time I'm aware of it, like some kind of cutscene in a videogame. As I line them up, he gives a little punched out breath and she whines, wiggling to encourage both of us to hurry up.

I don't know if she even takes the time to adjust once he's sheathed in her, her asscheeks dimpling under my hands with every flex of her thighs, riding him like a champion thoroughbred. And as impressive as that is, that's for them to enjoy; I have other things on my mind.

He doesn't flex or resist when I kneel and rest a hand on his leg, just follows my encouragement to plant his heels against the bed. It's more leverage, after all, and it's my understanding most men find that it increases their satisfaction. When I lean in, though, hot breath his only forewarning before I drag my tongue along his length up to her sex, he gives his loudest groan yet.

"Fuck, yes," she gasps, arching back. Her fingers snag in my hair as she returns his hand to her breast.

It stands to reason I'm never going to have this opportunity again, but that doesn't negate that he and I are still coworkers, not really friends. I've already crossed several lines toward making that an untenable situation, but I'm not looking to cross any more of his personal boundaries. I wish I knew more about what he likes and doesn't like, what's acceptable and what's not, without having to test those limits. My primary task is to please her, but he's far too much temptation for me to ignore.

My hand under his balls? He doesn't pull away, so I guess that's fine.

Gently rolling my fingers beneath them, a delicate massaging motion? He moans and shivers, but still doesn't stop.

Every time my mouth gets close to them, though, he curses and freezes. Is that a no? Or just a reticence to make the decision either way?

It's a big risk without sufficient reward and I'm not going to take it.

I know when they're both nearing the end. Her thighs tense, trying to close around him, but her strength is no match for his. My tongue dips behind the condom, finding her clit so I can suck at it ever so gently, and it's a handful of seconds before her whole body goes rigid, wracked by tiny shivers of euphoria. Her grip on my hair is painfully tight, so I don't blame him when I can feel his balls drawing up, her own grip on him too much to resist.

It's the salty cream as they rock together for a moment or two longer, distinctly different from the sweat I've tasted thus far, that restores my self control. Another line I hadn't planned to cross.

I back away, deliberately looking at the floor as my knees remind me how unhappy they are, and go to dampen a couple of washcloths with warm water. The aftermath is as awkward as expected; breathless grins, a few chuckles as they extricate themselves, glances met and broken just as quickly during attempts to clean up. I leave them to it long enough to brush my teeth. She's affectionate and shyly appreciative as she gathers her things to leave, even a little dazed. I see her to the door, patient but tired as I let her have one more kiss on her way out.

Mitchell is still nude when I return, although he's sitting up at the foot of the bed again. He seems pleased to be disheveled, which is fair. "That was insane."

I can't help my laugh. "Just a little bit," I agree, understatement in my tone.

"I can't believe you did that. I mean." He exhales sharply, either disbelieving or impressed or both.

That's kind of flattering, even though it pings on a few insecurities about being too weird. "It wasn't exactly a hardship," I tease.

The difficult part- knowing exactly what to do and then going through with it- is over. All that's left is talking. I can do that, especially now that my actions aren't under scrutiny. Talking only requires that I be myself and if people don't like what I have to say, they're welcome to leave, because I quit changing myself for others years ago.

"Even though I'm not your type?"

I stop rummaging for my pajamas and shoot him the best you're a dumbass look I can manage, because I'm much too tired to do otherwise. "Where'd you get that idea?"

"You said it."

"I never said that." I'm immediately irritated. I don't like being lied to and I like even less when people put words in my mouth I'm not guilty of.

"You said she's not your type and that I wasn't either," he insists.

"No, I said she's not my type and I'm not your type. That's not the same thing. At all."

"Oh." He raises an eyebrow. "So I am your type, then."

I sigh and feel myself begin to ramble. It's something of a triggering topic I wish I could ignore, but I guess I haven't made enough progress there. "I don't have a type. Like, I wish I could narrow it down to 'tall men' or 'punk women', but I like individuals. Five-foot-nothing to six-eight. Built like a stick or broad as a house. Feminine, masculine, both, neither. It's a whole ass problem. I think the only thing they all have in common is a sense of humor."

"Sooo..." He tilts his head, considering. "I am your type, because you like me?"

"Sure, you can put it like that." It's as accurate as any other summary I've heard. There's a belated spike of adrenaline as I hear my own words and realize what I've said; I don't suppose I can take it back now.

I know I'm not going to be able to sleep, but I'd like to at least turn off the lights and fake it. Whether I have the nerve to masturbate later is still up for debate. It feels like traipsing all over a boundary somehow, because although I've done it before while thinking about him, it'll be different now.

I'm tossing clothes into my suitcase when he asks, "So can I touch you?"

I'm not responsive for a long minute. I'm not sure I'm even breathing. Shame there's not a reboot command for the human brain, or at least an easy-to-access task manager to close failed processes.

"Why?" I finally respond. "Do you want to?"

He holds his hand out much as I did earlier and I tentatively approach, my hands coming to rest on his shoulders as he pulls me in. With the sweat drying on his skin, I can tell he'll begin to feel chilled soon. He must be seeing a deer in headlights as he looks up at me; I certainly feel like one.

"Does this happen to you often?"

"Does what happen?"

"Bringing home strangers for a threesome?"

"Not unplanned, no. I usually just give them a polite brush off."

"Usually? How often does this come up?"

"I mean, not that often. A few times at my sister's drag shows." I shrug dismissively. "I don't know. Apparently I've got some kind of vibe the recently divorced women in my area like." Hearing it out loud, I have to chuckle. "Okay, that sounds weird, but you understand what I mean."

"Is that why you're still dressed? You're trying to give me a polite brush off?"

There's heat rising to my cheeks and along the back of my neck. Embarrassment. "I just figured, since you and I weren't a planned thing, it didn't make sense to complicate an already complicated situation. And you'd prefer her, anyway." It's truly just a statement of fact.

"So what?" His hands slip under my shirt, exploring the small of my back without clear direction. "You think I can't manage you, too?"

I laugh without really meaning to, genuinely amused. "It's not- no, I really don't think I can be managed. And it seems kind of rude to expect anyone to try."

Resolve glints in his eyes as his hands make their way upward, trailing around my ribs until his thumbs are framing the curve of my breasts. My sharp intake of breath, quiet as it is, isn't intentional, but there's no mistaking what it means.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, watching my face.

I have to lick my lips before I can speak. "The lack of a blonde ponytail is pretty obvious," I admit, "but it's probably not the only reason I ain't your type. I also don't shave. Anything." I know that's a major turn-off for some people. I don't blame them, but it's too much effort to maintain, too irritating to half-ass it, and there's no real pay-off for me.

He harrumphs like I've said something funny. "Okay." Then his fingers are sliding downward, hooking behind my waistband and giving a firm tug.

"Oh, woah." I'm quick to grab his wrists and he stops immediately.

"I'm sorry. I thought-"

I interject, "I don't want her juices all over me." I nod towards the bathroom. "Shower's that way."

"Really?" He's incredulous. "You just had your mouth all over both of us."

"Yeah, no. Swallowing those fluids and having them mix with my own are two very different levels of familiarity. And I don't know her well enough to be cool with that."

"So it's not the touch that you're objecting to?"

"No, that I'm fine with."

"Alright."

I'm not sure what the look he gives me is supposed to convey as he leaves the bed. A not-quite-raised eyebrow, the faintest not-quite smile, and a bit of side-eye. Is he amused? Vexed? I admire the view until the door closes anyway.

I proceed to convince myself nothing is going to happen even as I undress. Not everything, just the uncomfortable pieces: shoes, socks, bra. I doubt I'm going to shock him with these things at this point, so it still feels safe. I empty my pockets, too.

My phone finally goes on the charger, flashing its pitiful, single-digit battery percentage at me in admonishment, and I sit on my own bed. Guilt is churning away as I open my messages, preparing to let my significant others know of the night's events; it's always been my policy to let them know beforehand, even if the timing doesn't actually matter to them. There's a flood of relief when I see that, even in the midst of brain fog, I've already made that a priority.

~Me (@11:43)

C.O.A.T.

Mitchell + 1F

~Husband

Boom chicka wow wow!

Stay safe.

~Girlfriend

Consensual, right? Have fun ;-)

I can't not smile. I love my dorks (and their sarcasm).

I'm not a patient person, generally speaking. I self describe as tolerant, capable of waiting for people quite extensively, but it's not the same. I get very antsy waiting for things. So I make myself comfortable against the pillows and repeat, silently, what becomes a little bit of a mantra: He's not actually interested, he's just caught up in post-sex exhilaration. He'll realize that by the time he comes back. The shower will clear his head.

He doesn't rush and it's only that I don't hear anything like a fall that prevents me from worrying.

I almost feel calm by the time Mitchell walks out of the bathroom, but I must have forgotten during that not inconsiderable period how good he looks out of his clothes, because I'm struck by it all over again. Not that it's exclusively physical, although I like that, too. It's that it's him and I'm getting to see him in a state I haven't before, one inarguably more vulnerable than the suit and tie required by his job. (He looks good at work, too, to be fair. I'm just partial to him in less formal attire.)

It hasn't entirely occurred to me that he's approaching until his hand engulfs mine and the phone I'm barely holding.

"Bored already?" he teases, looming.

I really want to ask if he's certain about all this, but I'm silently tied up in knots over whether I'll like the answer. So I'm flippant instead. "Well, you were gone a while. And you didn't specify if there was anything you'd like me to do in the meantime."

His eyebrows go up. "I didn't realize I could make requests." He leans forward a little more, setting my relinquished phone aside. "So do I merit a passing grade now?"

I can smell bourbon from my shampoo, the subtle bite of spice from my bodywash, and the sweetness of vanilla which they both share. Did he realize those were mine before he used them? He must have, given the other options are mounted to the wall. Maybe I'm biased, but I'm glad he used them; they suit him better than the mint-and-citrus that is the hotel's products of choice.

"A nine-point-two on the uneven bars," I tease, "but we'll have to see if you can stick the landing."

His lips on my neck make me shiver and my hands find their way to him instinctually. I've been ruthlessly ignoring the ache between my thighs for two weeks, knowing he'd be at the event and despite what's transpired in the last hours, but I can't hold that resolve forever. I don't know how to describe the sound that escapes me - A whimper? A moan? - but I need to get my legs around him.

It's a very belated, secondary thought for me to put my glasses on the nightstand.

His hand is inside my pants before I'm fully on my back and there's no way I'm not arching up to meet it. I've been in near pain for him since we left the restaurant, certainly since he confirmed our mutually unwise plans for the night, so there's less resistance than he expects. I can tell, because he pulls back to stare at me intently.

"What?" I gasp. I keep writhing because I need to, although he's making it difficult with the way he's using that same hand to press me into the mattress. He adds a second finger, as if the first wasn't thick enough, and I clench around them, eyelashes fluttering, exhaling slowly. I also hook a heel behind his thigh, because if he pulls away now I might have to kill him. "Fuck. Mitch."

"You're that wet for me?"

A huff of laughter. "Yes, I'm that wet for you. You can't possibly be surprised at this point."

"Who says?" He's thrusting a little, which feels undeniably good, and I'm falling into the rhythm of tightening up every time he withdraws, trying to keep him inside me, when he leans down to whisper in my ear. "What do you think it would take to make you purr for me?"

Oh, that's not fair, to ask me a question that amuses me to that degree and makes me just as horny.

The gush of arousal over his wrist should be answer enough, but just in case it isn't, I place a kiss behind his ear as I reply, "Just about anything you want."

He moves, far from shy about using his grip to shift me to the middle of the bed, and my squeak of laughter as I scramble to assist is about as girly a noise as I've ever uttered. It provokes a snort of laughter from him, which in turn properly sets me off. I wrap my arms around him, muffling giggles between us, and play with the hair near his nape as I take advantage of his distraction to find better friction against his palm. I love the stretch, but my clit needs some attention, too.

He's sagging against me, trying to suppress his own amusement. "You are not what I would have expected," he informs me, but at least he doesn't sound unhappy about it.

"Good?"

I let my head fall back, eyes half closed. I start to massage one of his shoulders only to notice just how much tension there is. With regret, I stop playing with his hair so I can knead both sides, carefully, firmly tracing the muscles until I've found the worst of it. Soothing the strain a little at a time even as I continue to undulate against him. Whoever said multitasking is never worthwhile clearly hasn't tried the right kind.

"That feels good," he groans, leaning into it.

"So do you."

He adds another finger, inciting the sting of just a little too much stretch too quickly, and his thumb finally, finally finds its way to my clit. I moan, knees drawing up so I can encourage him to just the right spot, and my eyes close, rolling back as he finds it. I'm still trying to rub his shoulders, but honestly, it's hard to remember to do anything but buck and breathe as his touch gets better and better.

His kiss isn't entirely expected, but I open to it all the same, because it's him. I shudder all over, unable to suppress a moan as his tongue sweeps my palate, and catch him with soft, intermittent suction around the slick muscle. I have to thread my fingers through his hair again, have to feel the tickle of the short strands as my body surges and ebbs in accordance with his whims.

"Tell me you want me." His voice is rougher than it was. I had thought the night couldn't get any hotter; I was wrong.

Of course, I do. "I want you."

"Tell me you want my cock."

I keen. Hard. "It's not fair to make me beg for something I can't have."

"Says who?"

He takes my hand, directs it where he wishes, and my eyes open to confirm what I already know; he feels just as good in my palm as he did before. I can't resist stroking him this time, enthralled with the velvet heat to the point of being otherwise motionless.

"You want it." It's not a question this time. We both know it doesn't need to be. "Tell me."

I whimper. I open my mouth to reply and instead bite my lip. "I want it." I want him. "I want your cock."

He withdraws, grabbing my pant legs, and snatches the garment nearly all the way off in one go. It provokes another embarrassingly girly noise, which in turn elicits a smirk from him as he finishes the job. Reaching for him backfires as he collects both of my hands in one of his, pinning them over my head while he displaces my shirt. My chest isn't as sensitive as some people's, so while the attention feels good, his hand being nice and his mouth even better, it's the firm restraint which is doing the most for me.

That, and having his body against mine.

He's rutting, slow and lazy, over my sex as he sates his curiosity about the rest of me and it's driving me mad. I keep trying to wrap my legs around him, to find the right leverage that will let me change the angle to something decidedly more penetrative, but he's got other plans and pushes my knee down over and over again. The bastard knows what he's doing, too. The hard length of him grinding against my clit, obscenely coated in the evidence of my arousal and becoming ever more so. I can feel his grin against my flesh.

"Fuck. Come on already," I beg.

"Impatient, are you?"

"You haven't been thinking about this for years," I retort, voice straining in sympathy with the rest of me.

It's as if he's been elbowed in the solar plexus, so fast is the air snatched from his chest, a harsh gust against my collarbone. He stops moving, leaning back to stare at me. He looks bewildered, but also a little awestruck. "Years?"

I arch against him as best I can, whining encouragement. "Are you kidding me? I'm not gonna go all Melissa Etheridge on you about it." Not unless he asks, and I figure he's unlikely to do that. "Can we talk about it later? Maybe when I don't need you so bad it hurts?"

His words are almost slurred and his voice as deep as I've ever heard it when he asks, "How do you want me?"

Throwing my head back isn't a conscious choice, but clutching at his hand hard enough to bruise is, if only barely. "I don't care how you fuck me, so long as you do it now."

His breath rolls in the back of his throat. A breathy growl. "Tell me how you want me."

"Immediately!" I demand, but it doesn't persuade him.

"Po-si-tion," he drawls.

"Why've I gotta say it?!" I try to writhe and buck, but he has his other hand on my hip now and I'd gladly let him have his way with me, if he'd just. Get. To. It. Instead of tormenting me with that damn gliding pressure.

He's kissing me again and I go back to suckling his tongue. Air vibrates at the back of my mouth. A dark purr. A promise. Anything to spur him on.

He breaks the kiss to demand again, "Tell me."

"Fuck! Just-" I have to take a couple of deep breaths to put the words together. "Hands and knees, okay? All fours."

He's pushing me around onto my knees before I can say more, not unkind in his touch but clearly determined. My shirt goes over my head to be discarded, presumably in the same direction as my pants, and then he's pulling my hips back, fitting my body against his.

I love how this position always feels, how open I am when I'm in it, how sensitive. Wanton. Not out of control, but still at someone else's mercy. The reduction of purpose to one of mere experience and sensation. The real world becoming trivial at best in such a moment.

He's got an arm beneath my chest, clearly enjoying how I rest in his palm, and the other around my hip so he can finger me some more. I'm trying to wiggle against him, responding to an identical urge which earlier had her doing the same, but he blocks me when I try to reach between my legs to guide him in.

"*Son* of a bitch!" I bite out, trembling as he again denies me in favor of more - unnecessary, intoxicating, frustrating, heady - stimulation.

"God, you're loud," he observes and sounds pleased with himself.

"I'm NEVER loud!" I'm not sure if I'm disagreeing with him or trying to make a point. I'm usually almost silent, or have been in all my other encounters, at least. "You're just- FUCK! MITCH!" His fingers and thumb are curling toward each other in just the right way and I can almost imagine why a star contracts before it explodes.

He mercifully allows me a moment to recover. "I'm just what?"

The ego on this guy.

I brace my hands against the headboard and push, driving backward with force, disturbing his balance. "You're evil is what you fucking are," I inform him even as I cant my hips, spreading my thighs that little bit wider. "If you don't-Hhhhnnngggg!"

He pushes in all at once and it's too much and perfect all at once, rendering me speechless. There's no pause for me to adjust because there's no need; between his fingers and my absurd level of arousal, I'm more than ready for him. It's so satisfying to clench around him. I'm panting, drooling with every slap of his balls as jolts of pleasure slam through me. 'Stop' is the furthest thing from my mind.

Moans and whimpers, his name and every curse I can think of. I utter them all without shame or self-consciousness. I don't care if anyone can hear me, or if they know who's not-so-slowly addicting me to his touch. I worry a little about being interrupted for a noise complaint, but mostly because I might stab the unlucky messenger. Repeatedly.

"Wish," he pants in my ear, "I had protection."

"On the-" I gasp back. "On the shot."

His hands are almost painful on my hips as he straightens up, snatching me back even as I strive to meet him. There's a cramp, the muscle throbbing, spasming deep in one of my thighs, and that's still not enough to distract me from what I want. There's something about knowing he's going to cum inside me that has every muscle tensing, tightening, my body begging for it the only way it can. My lovers have never liked this position as much as I do, and no other position does half as much for me, so it catches me by surprise when I realize just how close I am to orgasm. My skin is tingling, electrified and numb all at once.

I fight it. Losing control has never been a good thing in my life and the painfully irrational fear of ruining it- the moment, his enjoyment, myself- wraps me in its coils as it always does. I try to pull away, to twist aside or drop those last precious inches to the bed, even as I incoherently egg him on.

Suddenly, he's trapping my legs with his own, draping himself over my back as his thrusts turn shallow and rapid. His breath is hot and moist and broken as it falls over my neck. I can't squirm away this time, can't escape by mere physical means. He's too big, too strong, and I'm thanking creation itself that he is.

That's when it hits. Not like a bolt of lightning, as I would expect given the rest of the experience, but like a tsunami. Slamming into me, scrambling my brain, stealing what little breath I have left. I have no idea which way is up or where I'll surface, if I ever do.

I'm weak as a kitten when I blink my eyes open again. He's softening, slipping out of me, and sinking to the mattress. His chest is heaving, but he looks smug as he regards me. It's almost too much to straighten my legs, but I manage with a faint groan. My whole body feels like one delicious bruise.

"Good?" he has the audacity to ask.

I kind of want to slap him, but I ache too much for that level of activity. It's less effort to lean over for a kiss. "Best. Ever."

#writing #rpf #fantasy fiction #wingman threesome #personal

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