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In theory, what we are doing right now, at 2:34 in on a Tuesday afternoon, is supposed to be OK. There are rules, and technically we are abiding by them – or we would be, if we’d let Serena in on our little secret. But Rob, Serena’s husband of five years, and I haven’t let her in on anything, so instead, we are sprawled out on their marital bed while she is at work, and we are very much not working, unless you count his tongue buried in my pussy and my lips bobbing up and down on his cock “work”. I don’t; I consider this pure pleasure, the kind of bliss that makes pesky everyday things like rules melt away.
‘Just forget about her for right now,’ he’d said the first time it happened, when I’d stopped by to drop off some brownies I’d baked for my curvy girlfriend – her favourite kind, dusted with cayenne, giving them a hint of spice – and wound up kissing him. With her fire-engine red hair (though sometimes it’s a shocking blue or purple, just to mix things up), Serena is the type of woman who likes spice, which is why she’s always insisted on having an open relationship with Rob, even though I’m pretty sure he’d be just as happy to have her all to himself. He’s more of the quiet, intellectual type, his bookshelves filled with Dickens, or maybe a political treatise he’d read about in the New York Times Book Review. He’s the type who you can never guess what they’re thinking until they speak, whereas Serena is the very opposite; she has no poker face whatsoever. She was the one with the ravenous appetite – for food, for sex, for life – the one who could never resist a locked door or “do not enter” sign, who was always restless unless she was shaking up the status quo. Sometime I was surprised she’d ever gotten married at all, but she’d told me over and over how Rob had seduced her in every way, how he was game for anything, how he had the biggest cock she’d ever seen – or tasted.
The thing is, when she started dropping hints about him, I became curious, and then more than curious. How could I not when she talked about him in such rapturous tones? Her giddiness was replaced with something else, an almost wistful tone, her cheeks pink with her own ardour. She wasn’t shy about bragging about Rob, and didn’t mind my increasingly probing questions, not even when we were in bed.
‘Oh, he likes it when I use these clamps on his nipples,’ she said once, laughing as she dangled them in the air, then attached them to my nubs. The more of these little morsels she shared, when we were out at the movies, where her fingers inevitably wound their way up my skirt and into my panties, or at a restaurant, where she’d tell me his favourite drink, the more I wanted to get to know this quiet man who’d shacked up with, married, partnered with such a glam, gorgeous woman. Did he revel in her outrageous flirting the way I did, or was he ever jealous? Did he like being the calm to her storm? I love Serena, in my own way; how could I not? She is the essence of a party girl, and she is always looking for, and finding, a good time.
But there is only so much of that wildness I could take before I wanted to know the man who was the yin to her yang, and that day, something about how he looked in his rumpled shirt – he’s a writer who works from home, and he’d been taking a nap – made me want to ravish him, to taste him, to see which one of them I most resembled. Was I the quiet one waiting patiently for Serena to come home, or would I, with him, take on her role and overtake him? I was on my lunch hour, so I didn’t have long, but I felt maybe a little of what she feels when she looks at him, this need to shake him up, to run my fingers through his messy hair, to rip the buttons off his shirt, to find out what lies beneath the surface.
‘Oh – hi,’ he said, startled even though I’d had to give my name at the door, then rise up thirty floors in the elevator of their high-rise building. I was bundled up for winter, my cheeks flushed by the cold, grateful for the added colour on my skin.
‘I brought brownies,’ I said, laughing, wondering if he noticed the tension in the room between us, a tension I’d never noticed before when the three of us had dinner or hung out and watched movies on their big-screen TV. ‘You should try one,’ I said, forcing a maturity, a command to my voice, that I wasn’t really feeling.
‘Sure,’ he said, easy, casual, and moved toward the tin.
‘No, let me,’ I said, taking off my hat, scarf and coat and suddenly feeling overdressed in my navy pencil skirt and ivory silk blouse. I used the edge of one of my long nails to ease off the top of the tin, the smell of chocolate and spice wafting through the living room. I needed to do this my way, and my way, apparently, involved grabbing Rob and slamming him up against the front door. ‘Close your eyes,’ I said. ‘They’ll taste better that way.’ I’d never touched the man before, had only fleetingly thought about his body when Serena had imparted something about the way he kissed or fucked or came; in those seconds, I’d get flashes of him naked, of his body spasming, his glasses off, his limbs quivering. I knew what Serena looked like in the throes of orgasm, but this, it was rapidly becoming clear, wasn’t about Serena at all. Their home, zapped of her all-consuming energy, suddenly took on a life of its own.
His eyes were closed, and I broke off a corner of a brownie, then brought it toward his lips. They were soft, thin and gentle, smooth as my fingers brushed against them and inserted the piece directly against his tongue. I reluctantly eased my fingers out and watched him, his eyes closed, his mouth processing the spice and the sweet. I couldn’t recall what kind of eater he was, if his palate was mild, like his personality, or whether lurking inside was the kind of fiery tongue possessed by his wife. I kept my face close to his, letting him feel my breath against his lips, waiting until he was done. I didn’t ask – not about what he thought about the brownie, or if he wanted me to press my lips against his; I just did it. You can tell if someone wants a kiss or not, if their lips yield to yours or not, if they sink into your passion or shrink away from it. Maybe our lips best express their intentions in their actions, rather than their words. A kiss can’t lie, and this one certainly told the truth: Rob wanted me.
As my tongue traced his, catching hints of brownie, then going further, claiming Serena’s husband’s tongue as mine for this stolen moment, he answered me back. His tongue said, ‘Yes, please, take me.’ So I did; I shoved my tongue deep into his mouth, not thinking about Serena, but just feeling his body flush against mine. And that was how it started. That afternoon it was just a kiss; I had to leave, and I wanted to think about whether I was ready for this before jumping in fully.
He took care of the rest. By the time I got back to my office, there was an email from Rob ... with a photo of his hard cock. Then another a few minutes later showing me his come. I hadn’t been with a guy since my last boyfriend; I’d met Serena and she’d been more than enough for me. Maybe he wasn’t so mild, after all. I didn’t miss cock per se, but I knew I couldn’t say no to Rob; I suddenly missed him, needed him, and couldn’t deny the way he made my whole body light up. Serena lit me up too, but if they didn’t have to choose, why did I? Serena had a host of other lovers and, as far as I knew, Rob didn’t.