You're at his place. Outside, there's a soft blanket of snow, undisturbed but for the rabbit tracks that weave under your car. The air, winter-lake-cold and thin, shatters on my face as I walk. The glamour of the only working streetlight echoes on the snow beneath me, where it twinkles like constellations of tiny glass stars. It's a misbegotten street of half-built houses, with an unfinished road and dirt lots unready for sod. Any other night, it might seem sad and unloved, but tonight I see your silhouette through the window, and I know nothing here is unloved.
You've been spending your evenings with him more and more. You enjoy his closeness the way I enjoy your eyes just before you laugh. He sits with you on the couch in a cozy easiness, your legs dragged over his. You're in light pink pyjamas; he half-dressed in dark shorts. There is nothing to say, so you don't speak. You and I fill our silences with the lint of our lives, but, for you and him, there is only the comfortable sound of togetherness. It makes me jealous to see you so happy—not that I would suffocate your joy to make you half as happy with me, but jealous I could only ever be half as happy with anyone.
He rises and tells you it's time for bed. Mischief sparkles in your eye. Your hands touch his hips. He touches your chin. You say your words, and he pulls you to your feet, pushing the shimmering curtain of your hair aside. Softly, he kisses the arching muscle of your shoulder, until his lips meet your neck, and you shiver. You look back at him, heated in your cheeks. Your body knows what happens when he kisses you there. And
there
now, as he kisses under the sharp line of your jaw, moving your head away. Your mouth parts as he awakens your body, swaying in the living room like off-beat dancers.
He leans into your ear. There's a surprise for you in the bedroom—and you love that about him, that he's always thinking of you. You're thinking of him too. You tell me often how his body makes yours feel sacred, and faithful, and loved, like a faithless man's miracle. He spins you into the hallway and then tells you he wants to make sure the house is locked.
With a quiet nod, he opens the front door and lets me in like an old friend, then he's back to you, dancing towards the bedroom. He takes out the box with its robin-red ribbon, wrapped in green and blue-striped paper. It'll be Christmas soon, but he couldn't wait to spoil you. He loves how your chin tucks into your neck as you tug the broad bow with your fingers. It reminds him of the way you behave when his head is between your legs, trying hopelessly not to seem excited.
What is it? You pull out two sets of padded restraints, each set connected by long fabric. He tells you their purpose. You blush.
He wants to try them. He insists. Your clothes are on the floor and his hands are on your hips. They've been there many times, but something is different tonight. Maybe you sense me in the hallway's shadow, or maybe you only wish you could. You've told me this fantasy often, begging in what-ifs and innuendo for the two of us, with fingers, and bodies, and tongues to love you beyond your longing.
He binds your left wrist. You quiver like broken earth. He binds your right wrist. You're a spring river melting. He binds your legs, exposing you to him—to us. You tremble as his hand reaches for your thigh. But not yet. There's one more gift. He draws a blindfold from the box and puts it over your eyes—then, when you can't see, we begin.
As he undresses, I glimpse the build of his shadowy figure. He's hard, knowing what we're about to do. The tip of his cock curves up just enough that I understand why you talk about it so lovingly with your clicking tongue. He smiles to me, our faces indistinguishable in half-blue shadows.
Sweetly, he whispers as you lay there, his fingers gripping your pink thigh, lips kissing the softness of your neck. He coos to you, stroking your hair as my palm seizes the top of your leg.
You jump as you register the inconsistency. You know what's happening, but you don't understand. He and I share a smile as you struggle against your restraints. You're confused, and yet you can't ignore the thrill of fear that's dancing like fingers on your skin.
My lips caress the goosebumps that ripple out in waves along your soft thigh. He kisses the tender peak of your nipple. The round top of your pelvis moves towards me and my kiss melts into it. I pull back, trembling almost as much as you. I've been here often in my own mind, supplicant to your pleasure, confessor to your sins, tracing my feather touch down your sides as your body betrays your passion.
My long finger glides down your slit, a mix of fear and excitement passes over your face. You want to ask what's going on, but you're afraid the quietest sound will chase away the dream. Lazily, I kiss between your butterfly-split legs. Your hands struggle for freedom, for control. You need your fingers in my wavy hair, guiding me down your body, but tonight your only choice is surrender.
My head pulls out from between your hips. I hear you beg. It's the soft sound of big raindrops on my face. I love that sound, as I love your desperation and your passion, your longing and your desire. The way you say please teeters on your tongue like slowly falling tree, tumbling down, down, down, one eager inch at a time.
Together, he and I laugh. We have all night, and come morning no part of you will be neglected.
As we lie on each side of you, our listless fingertips drag across your beautiful body, but I am stilled by your kaleidoscopic beauty and the perfect shapes of you that splash around me in endless patterns of ribboned moonlight. I want so much from you that it pains me, just as our fingers pain you. I want to hurt you well and love you better. I want to draw out every part of yourself that you hide, until you're naked and shivering and exposed, so you know we love you most for who you are.
Kiss me, you say, but still we ignore you. Only the quiet sounds of your weak moans break the night's silence. Then, we talk around you like we're old friends reminiscing, ignoring every one of your pleas. He tells me what you enjoy most, as if I haven't heard it a hundred times before. She likes to feel your tongue between her legs. She likes it when you finish inside of her. She likes being spanked. She likes to wait hours and hours before you let her cum.
I tell him how you've always wanted to try something more deviant, and we laugh as you tense in curiosity, wondering just how much we're going to do to you. You can't help but struggle more thinking about it. Please, you say, you'll do anything.
Oh, we know you will, sweetness.
Our hands find their way to your flushed thighs, the warmth pooling in your hips. You buck and strain, trapped in this bed with us, our willing victim of all imaginable pleasures. Or perhaps we imagine giving you no pleasure, as we rouse your small nipples with our breath and whisper our darkest thoughts into your red ears. You're a picnic for the senses as I revel in your hunger with my eyes; tease your skin with my fingers; draw deeper the smell of your budding body; listen eagerly to your cool pleas; until all that's left is to feast.
Our cocks bob up and down the sides of your legs as we torture you—then even our hands leave you. We love your body, as we love you, and the way you struggle urges us to do terribly wonderful things to you.
At first, with fingers, I tease. Then, as a gift, my head moves down, leaving a long trail of kisses from shoulder to hip. I move, pushing my face between your legs, hands hooking under you, binding you to me. There's no escaping my wide tongue as it parts your lips and flicks against your clit—not to pleasure you; not to make you feel warm and tingly; not to make you writhe in delight; but only to provoke you—to remind you that, tonight, we possess you.
I want to take my time and make you savour every touch, but I can't resist moaning as I devour you like a ripe peach. You're sweeter than the sweetest words ever said, and it's only when you mumble how good it feels that I realize I'm drunk on you.
