Most of the trouble I get myself into evolves from a dare. I can’t defend an open mind against a challenge. It’s a character flaw dressed up as a virtue and these foolish gestures tend to produce remarkable experiences. How else do I explain finding myself “compromised” with my best mate, Eric: both of us naked except for satin thongs (his black, mine royal blue) facing each other, bound in nylon rope, our panty-covered cocks grinding against each other while our wives fucked us with handheld dildos. We couldn’t even kiss. Our tongues were blocked by ball gags.
The sight of their two experimental husbands must have driven Meghan and Isabella to conjure up every kind of kink as punishment and permission at once. Neither Eric nor I would yield, except, of course, to their perversely creative minds.
The dare started that afternoon, poolside at Isabella’s. Meghan and I had been drinking mojitos with her since noon. I swam laps while the wives sunbathed and gossiped, all three of us fifty shades of pink and thoroughly toasted by the time Eric got home from campus. He’s a colleague of mine; we’ve been close for nearly five years, meeting at the gym to school undergrads in intramural basketball. He cycles, tries to get me onto the road with him. I run. Different religions.
Multiple modes of undress peppered the patio as Eric bounded to the pool’s edge before arcing in a graceful dive that sent droplets of water pattering around Megan’s toes. She’s told me before how much she loves the sight of his body; not a confession exactly, more a fact she’s stopped bothering to hide. I’m not the jealous type. I’m also, if I’m honest, a little envious of the build: 6’2”, dirty blond, a jawline that does actual work, and those obliques that cut down toward the hips… what Meghan calls his “on-ramps.” She stares. This isn’t the first time.
Well-endowed men love to taunt. I don’t remember Meghan’s first glimpse of him, we’ve shared enough over the years that they blur, but I do remember the night she came home with a 9-inch dildo from the lingerie shop and named it Eric, because it was ‘close enough’. We’ve had more than one late evening with that imaginary third party in the room. It doesn’t mean she’s unhappy with me. I run a little over five inches and a patience most men my age don’t bother cultivating. Some Tantric shit. Meghan took a while to catch up to that particular kink, but she’s fully caught up now.
So: Eric, mid-stride, stole Isabella’s mojito straight from her hand. She’s got a gift for unsettling people out of whatever they’re doing — she lowered her sunglasses, fixed him with a look that made the ice click against his teeth, hooked her calf between his legs to pin his cock flat against his thigh, and told him if he wanted to keep it happy he’d go make her another.
“How about something else?” He caught her ankle instead, freed himself, held her leg up so the rest of us got a clean view of her bikini cunt. Then he let her go, dug through his discarded trousers, and produced three tightly rolled joints. “Got these from our favorite grad student this afternoon.”
“How’s Christina?” I asked, still gripping the pool’s edge.
“Funny. She doesn’t mention you at all.” He lit one, passed it to Meghan, lit a second, and came and crouched at the edge in front of me, cock resting against the tile. “We’ll share this one.” He swatted my hand away when I reached for it,“wet hands,” and held it to my mouth himself.
I took a hit, went under, hung there weightless with my lungs full, staring up at the rippled ceiling of the pool’s surface. Came up smiling. “Damn, that’s smooth.”
“Special blend,” he said. “Pulled it out of the front of Christina’s panties.” The laugh caught in his throat right as the first ice cube caught him in the ear. “Kidding, babe!”
“How many semesters has that groupie had with you now?” Isabella wanted to know.
“They were a gift. I edited her conference paper.”
“You going to the conference?”
“Obviously.”
“Not without me,” she said, and it wasn’t really a fight… Isabella and Eric aren’t the jealous-guarding type of couple. Not open, exactly. Opportunistic. Hedonists, unapologetically.
He gave me the joint again while they bickered it out above me, and I went under a second time, half convinced I could still taste Christina on it. Whether that was true or just Eric’s gift for suggestion, I couldn’t say, and honestly didn’t want to resolve.
When I surfaced his legs had made a dock around me. He sat on the edge, offered another pull, and the four of us sat inside that particular tension nobody names out loud — until Isabella named it. “Fuck, you two are always teasing each other. Just suck his cock already, Paul.”
I pushed back from the edge. His legs closed around me before I got anywhere.
“And if you two don’t quit fucking around with Christina,” I said, mostly to cover the moment, “Meghan and I are going to take it out on both of you.”
“Yeah? How?” His calves came up on my shoulders, dragged me back in against him, balls draped over the edge, cock rising in that slow unbothered way of his. A sundial keeping obscene time. He lowered the joint, balanced it on his own swelling head. “Which do you want more?”
Meghan’s thighs pressed together without her noticing. Hard to say if it was the pot or the want doing that to her face.
“Just the tip,” she said, when I hesitated. “C’mon. I want to watch you suck his cock. It’ll put me right over.”
“Christ, Paul,” Isabella said. “Does she have to come down there and do it for you?”
“I can handle that,” Eric said, and closed his legs around my head before I answered either way.
I told myself I resisted. My body had other information. Maybe it was the arithmetic of it: that going down on Eric was the same as going down on Meghan’s want. I don’t fully know. What I know is my arms came up over his thighs, I hauled myself up out of the water, and my mouth drowned him.
He filled the back of my throat before I’d braced for it. Thick. Heavy. Chlorine from the pool. Meghan’s hands found the back of my head. I only knew it was her because of what she said next, low, almost clinical: “Relax. Just relax. How’s that feel, you fuck. You do this to me constantly.” Her grip tightened. “Fuck his face. I want to see it move.”
He did. I gagged once, caught myself, let my teeth stay clear. Drool ran down his balls and dripped into the pool below us. Above, Meghan had a hand inside her bikini bottom, circling, watching with the hunger of someone finally getting proof of a kink she’d suspected for years. Isabella was on Eric’s other side, biting his neck, pulling his nipple, murmuring something that got a “sure” out of him, and then his legs lifted me clear, breaking the seal, and both women hauled me up onto his chest.
Meghan’s hand was in the back of my trunks before I’d finished coughing, dragging them down my legs. She got a fist around my cock and steered me, dripping, into the house.
Isabella marched us up to the master bedroom and put us at the window, facing the neighborhood, and made us spit into our own palms before reaching over to slick each other off. Two husbands, jerking each other in full view of anyone who cared to look up from their lawn.
“What should we do with them?” she asked.
Meghan stepped out of her bikini bottom, the top had been lost somewhere between the pool and the stairs, and dropped it on my shoulder. “Put these on.” Then, to Isabella: “Paul’s dirty little secret, other than the obvious, is that he wears my panties sometimes.”
“Oh, really.” Isabella came around behind me, hand on my ass. “This would look incredible in a thong.”
She tossed Meghan’s bottoms to the floor and went to raid her own dresser instead. An entire drawer of options, apparently, for exactly this contingency. Meghan helped her sort. “He likes tangas and thongs. I prefer him in boy shorts, personally.”
“I’ve got plenty of thongs,” Isabella said, holding up a fistful. “Let’s put the boys in these.”
They stepped us into them one leg at a time, brooking no argument. Royal blue satin for me, riding up over an erection with no interest in staying tucked; black for Eric, immediately soaked dark at the tip.
“Face each other,” Isabella said. “Look at those magnificent panty cocks.” Her palms ran over both of us at once.
“They should kiss,” Meghan said, and put her hands on the backs of our heads to make sure it happened.
Stubble against stubble. His tongue fighting mine like it had something to prove. Our cocks slid together through the satin, his thick shaft against my smaller one, and for a few seconds I lost the thread of whose idea any of this had been. It didn’t feel like a dare anymore.
We didn’t notice the rope until it was already tightening. Hands on our shoulders steered us down to our knees, wrists pulled behind our backs, and then the ball gags came down over both our faces at once. Meghan fitting mine, Isabella fitting his, like a matched set they’d been planning since the mojitos. Eric’s eyes found mine over the gag. Whatever we’d been performing for the wives up to that point, this was the part where the performance stopped.
“Now the real fun starts,” Isabella said, working lube into a pink dildo the size of a dissertation argument. Her grip on the tube was tighter than it needed to be. She wasn’t looking at me when she said it, she was looking at Eric, and there was an edge under the smirk that hadn’t been there at the pool. Christina’s name hadn’t come up again, not once, and that felt less like the subject being closed than the subject being saved. “Meghan… you think Paul can take all of this?”
“Babe. Paul’s kinky as hell. Obviously he can.” Meghan picked something a little more modest for Eric, and I noticed, even through the haze, that her eyes stayed on Isabella’s hands a beat too long, reading something in them I hadn’t caught. “Toss me the lube when you’re done.”
They pulled our thongs aside in the same motion, like a rehearsed number, and I felt the blunt cold press against me right as — I have to assume, from the muffled sound he made — Eric felt the same. The burn at the rim. The give. Then the slide, unhurried, and my body giving up its argument against it.
With every thrust we drifted closer, cocks dragging together through soaked satin, both of us groaning around our gags loud enough that the gags stopped doing their job of silencing anything.
“God, they’re really into it,” Isabella said.
“I want to see them sixty-nine,” Meghan teased.
They toppled us in sync, Eric onto his left, me onto my right, and Meghan dragged me by the ankles until Eric’s balls were an inch from my face. Gags came off. She pulled his thong aside and fed him into my mouth while Isabella guided me into his. Both of us tasting satin and chlorine and each other under it.
Then the dildos started again, and there was no more spare attention for performance. Just the double math of getting fucked and sucking at the same time, the specific desperation of an orgasm you can feel coming from two directions at once. I came first, felt him feel it happen in my throat, and the shudder ran straight through him half a second later — his own release hitting the back of my mouth, spilling out the side despite my best effort.
We came apart slowly. I rolled onto my back in time to watch Meghan and Isabella grinding against each other like the whole afternoon had just been foreplay for the wives.
I let out a deep sigh. Exquisitely numb.
Omg, omg I almost came without touching myself. Gonna have to sit quietly for a few minutes.
Man, can you set a scene!
sounded like a great party,wish i was there, love every thing bi