Night comes, and with a sigh of beneficence a cool wind stalks with great spider-legged clouds, climbing down from the Appalachian Mountains and banishing the humidity back to the Sea. Rain patters against your window as make straight for your bedroom, locking the door and sealing yourself inside with your fantasies and your small collection of sex toys. You dim the holiday lights strung along the edge of your ceiling, azure and heliotrope glow bathing your sanctuary in oceanic colors that remind you of your own ancient homeland.
A full body-length mirror sits at the foot of your bed, strategically placed so you can...watch yourself, to grow visually familiar with what feels good when you pleasure yourself with your fingers or a dildo; and, of course, you've enjoyed the self-voyeur of seeing a man's cock thrust into you, or a woman's hips roll against your own.
Monstrously lurid, unwholesomely sexual imagery paints itself across your vividly illuminated mind as you lie back and watch yourself masturbate. Your lovers for tonight, rather than someone plucked from that little black book to be wined and dined, are a charming pair. One is a long, bright red anatomically correct cock you've affectionately named Richard, his partner a pink clitoral stimulator with a spinning, slurping head...you love when they work in tandem.
Fittingly, your mind is focused on not one of the men you've been publicly inappropriate with...but both at once. This is a
sin
Anastasia, you're not supposed to be thinking about:
...standing before them both in crisp, pure white lingerie, your modest breasts cupped in silk that barely covers the chocolate darkness of your nipples, that barely rides up over the shaven smoothness of your mons. Cream colored stockings encase your muscled thighs as you run your fingers up the insides of your legs temptingly, displaying your brazen need for them both. You imagine them perched patiently before you...restraining themselves from ravaging your form as you slide your panties aside -
- watching as the swollen, hungry lips of your pussy open around Richard; you slick him up and down your vulva, kissing his cumslit up underneath the bud of your clitoris. You pull the fat swell of your toy's crown downward toward your opening, painting it with your juices as you caress and squeeze your breast. You make eye-contact with yourself as you bring Richard's helm to your lips, tasting your own cream and imagining -
- the two of them, reclining back on that couch...shirtless, their bodies revealed for your greedy fingers - the nails of your right hand hiss through that bad-boy's light chest hair, the left tracing along the crevices of definition on that nameless IT agent's shoulders. You relish the difference between them...one is built like a warrior, the other sculpted like a swimmer. Your mind's eye fills in the details of what you felt through their pants, fingers tracing over the twinned hardness of their arousal. At your soft command, they bare themselves to you; belts clinking unbuckled, flies unzipping, the sound of cloth sliding away until they're revealed to you.
You push Richard's veiny girth as deep as he can go, feeling no need to restrain your cries of need as the stimulator whirls around the nubbin of your pleasure. Your juices drip, copious and creamy, staining your sheets - your partners had
adored
the volume of your juices...but more than that, all of them had agreed: you were singularly skilled with your mouth.
Across the detailed screen of your imagination's theater, you gaze thoughtfully upon them both. First...your lips travel up from the base of your dark lover's shaft, slurping lewdly back and forth along the swell of his frenum, and you pull away to pump it slickly with your hand before looking at your other lover's manhood. Your mouth seals around him, a luxuriant kiss, and you bring them close enough together that they both drool their barely restrained payload against your lips.
This sort of fantasy was solely forged from the stuff of your dreams of course, since most men were unusually squeamish around each other's bodies, and because the courage required to actually try and put this sort of together was beyond you...or was it?
You recall a time in your (slightly less) wild youth, when you were 'dating' two men who were, in fact, best friends; one a fine sculptor, the other a silver-tongued poet...and though you'd come close to bringing them both into your bed, it had never truly materialized, to your chagrin. This, though...your realms of possibility had expanded manyfold; your little black book was replete with names and numbers but none of them
fascinated
you like the bad boy on the train, or the sleek company man.
You'd had the strength to reach out and take what you'd wanted, and not just once...at least three times already, and wasn't that magic number 'three' significant? In the marshy darkness of your deviance, your mind lingered upon all the wonderful things they could do to you; your thighs quiver as you turned Richard basted within you heat, climax threatening -
-
to overtake them both as your lips work over their fruit-plump thickness, pressed together against the tip of your tongue. You softly stroke your hands over both their shafts, a loving kiss delivered against the underside of each fulsome helm. The telltale, subdued throb of their plateau - you recognize it, and pull away just a little infuriatingly...only to sit back on your mattress, sliding your soaked panties down your legs. An elegant and lewd command to come and take their turns with you tugs them your way; the man you'd 'met' on the train, he's the first, his curved haft wetly sliding between your labia, a dollop of pearlescent semen dripping over your mons before -
Your cellphone ringtone obnoxiously interrupts you. Your eyes snap open, flustered beyond any composure but with little choice you answer your manager's call...the sheer
nerve
of ringing you at 8pm, and for little more than to take him through tomorrow's itinerary with that over-demanding toad of a finance minister.
When you hang up the line, a blush of bright pink crawls across your tawny cheeks as you notice the stain of your erotic fluids across your sheets...good
Lord
you needed to do this, you
at least
needed to be well-bedded for the first time in months, but...specifically by one of them.
You quickly finish yourself off, toes curling and fingers gripping the sheets as climax rips through you, but the heat of the stolen moment has passed. You lie there, staring up at your ceiling, naked and throbbing with release, wondering just how
far
the Devil on Your Shoulder would tell you to go the next time you encountered them...and you sincerely hope you would.
The next morning comes; you slept little that night, tormented by lurid, nearly lucid dreams of their simultaneous touch...when you awaken you remember nothing but a blur of sweat-sheened flesh, of your tongue dragging across muscled abs and turgid shafts, of their hips working in tandem to bring your dream-self across the peaks and valleys of pleasure.
The Devil on Your Shoulder:
You have a big day ahead of you, and then it's over...the minister goes back to Changsha, and with it your pressures evaporate; will you go back to your normal, boring self, or free of his burden will you spread those slutty angel wings of yours?
You:
Maybe I can just be a normal person without slut wings and ask his number?
The Devil on Your Shoulder:
Which one? The cute guy from the train, or that suave fellow at your company? Neither? Both?
You:
I can't decide - can we just talk about this later?!
The Devil is mercifully silent as you pull a dark-rose colored, fitting dress over your trim form; nothing overly suggestive, flitting gracefully along the tightrope astride 'sexy' and 'professional' but sure to grab the right kind of attention. Underneath, taking inspiration from your lurid dreams...a filigree-edged, snow-white thong brings out the callipygian curvature of your glutes; the dress dips just low enough in the front that hints of your cream colored brazier, holding your pert B-cups in place, are visible to the errant eye.
It occurs to you, as you step out the door, that you don't even know their names...were you really the kind of woman who would go further down this libidinous rabbit hole?
This whole thing is driving you mad.
Upon your sylphlike shoulders sits the Atlas-burden of your looming meeting with Finance Minister Jun, a feeling akin to anticipating a long and tedious hospital visit. Jun has been painfully exacting, demanding every aspect of your system explained in detail through his poor, overworked translator; you ignore the fact that your manager had told you to dress to impress today, and focus instead on getting this done and over with.
