NOTE: story contains bisexual male/gay content.
...A twist on cuckold. An ambiguously gendered, bisexual protagonist uses wife to get to husband in a three-way exchange of lust, anger, jealousy, and fear...
*
She's telling me about the time you cracked your head open as a kid while I pretend to hear the story for the first time. You both tell it the same way as if you've rehearsed it countless times over the course of your marriage. I remember to laugh and be sympathetic at the right moments, though my mind is focused on the dissonance between her upbeat delivery and the lines of sadness around her eyes.
How did I end up here on your couch with your wife, drinking a glass of cheap red wine in the middle of the afternoon? It's completely absurd. Regardless of the stories you and I have shared, we are only brothers until 5 o'clock, and then your personal life is completely separate from mine.
So this is the first time I've really talked to your wife at length; the first time I've noticed how elegant she is under the weariness. By the time she reaches the punchline of your story -- where you pass out at the sight of your own blood -- my vision has narrowed to her lips. I hear no words, only the cadence and pitch of her expression.
God, I wish you would just show up so we can go to the damn vendor fair that our boss is making us attend. I resist the urge to look at my watch. I'd be too rude if I wondered out loud how much longer you'll be.
She leans toward me to top off my glass and I can see down her shirt. My face, already ruddy from wine, grows a shade deeper in embarrassment. If she notices where my eyes have wandered, she pretends she hasn't. The thought of touching her breasts ignites a cocktail of fear and desire in the pit of my belly. I feel myself getting hard when I think of how it would make you feel...
She talks to me like I am a newcomer to your lives; an outsider. I suppose I am. I wonder if you've told her my story; not the kind of story you tell to demonstrate your intimacy with someone, but the kind you tell sparingly, desperately. I still have no idea why you were the first one I told.
Ugh, where the hell are you? You were supposed to meet me twenty minutes ago.
Maybe she does know my story; or she understands what you mean to me somehow. She rests her hand on my knee as if it's normal for her to do so and asks if I want to see the rest of your place. I follow her euphemism with curiosity. Before I can even see the kitchen, I'm in your bed and my tongue is in her mouth.
Her hunger makes me wonder when you last kissed her like this. She reaches through me, as if she could touch you there. I don't need to wonder anymore about what you've shared with her, having been married to her all these years. She knows how strongly I feel about you, and how I need you. And she's using it to her advantage.
I go down on her with forceful reverence. Her body is melting in my arms and my mouth as she reaches up for my fingers. I hold out to increase the heat in her. Her moans are so soft, like she is afraid she will frighten me away. When I finally reach up inside her, her throat opens with long cries of pleasure that bring tears to the corners of my eyes. We don't even hear you come into the house, let alone the room.
She notices you first and gasps, wiggling away from me. I instinctively feel your presence behind me; I recognize the subtle sounds of your body by ear. I turn to you. The color has drained from your face and your eyes blink long and slow. I feel a pang of regret; I didn't mean to throw your heart onto the ground.
I leap up toward you, forgetting that I'm naked from the waist down. I embrace you, kissing your neck as an apology and an invitation. At first you don't move at all. I can tell from your eyes you've gone to that mental space where you try to think about something so hard in order to avoid feeling it. I imagine your brain oscillating between wanting to fuck me and wanting to kill me.
