Things We Tried On Ch 03

Barbara and I were already too close before she ever made love to me. Looking back, I think there was always a current -- subtle but steady -- of something unspoken in our friendship. A quiet pull. Maybe even a trace of desire. She'd had experience with women before. She was drawn to me. And she knew enough, felt enough, to recognize something stirring in herself.

Within a few weeks, we'd found our rhythm. While the kids were at school and kindergarten, we started stealing an hour or two for ourselves -- regular, deliberate. Moments carved from the everyday, brightened by touch, laughter, and the secret thrill of it all.

Just the two of us. No men around. It felt like cheating -- real cheating. Like adultery. It bothered me. And it felt good.

No -- no, that wasn't the motivation. Of course not. I'm not that kind of person. At least... I don't think I am. That's something a 'normal peaople' might not understand. Or maybe no one would.

Of course you want it -- that sweet, happy little tickle. Thank God you never outgrow that. But if it were only about pleasure, you wouldn't need different people. Or different roles. Or different games. Hell, if that were it, you could just use a candle in the bathroom.

No -- it was the closeness. That's what we needed. That woman-to-woman closeness you simply can't get from a man -- not really, not completely. There's a quality to it. A depth.

When I tried to talk about this with Archie -- I don't anymore -- he didn't understand. I don't think he wants to understand. Some days, I'm not sure I understand either.

We gave each other something, Barbara and I. Reassurance. Comfort. We learned to use each other's bodies like medicine. Headache? Take aspirin. Tension? Take that little blue pill. Depression? Go down on the girl next door.

And it worked -- it did. But it also created this echo, this guilt pattern, and a few days later you're low again. And the cure is obvious. And suddenly you're caught in a cycle that makes you wonder: Am I basically a lesbian?

"This is ridiculous," she said one afternoon, laughing as we lay tangled together on the couch, the TV flickering in the background, forgotten. "I haven't watched a single show in weeks."

I kissed her shoulder. "That's because I'm far more entertaining."

"Oh really?" she said, raising an eyebrow. "Then by all means -- entertain me."

Everything felt new. Even the simplest things gave us joy. Silly games we used to dismiss became thrilling again, simply because we were discovering them together.

We hardly ever watched television anymore. We filled our time with each other -- laughing, touching, trying new things just for the hell of it.

"I never thought something this... casual could feel so alive," she whispered once, her breath warm against my neck.

"And yet here we are," I said, pulling her closer.

That freshness, that freedom -- it made us open to anything. We found ourselves saying yes to almost everything, just to see where it might take us.

"Do you think we'll ever reach a point where we're doing things that seem too kinky?" I asked her one day. "I mean... doesn't that usually happen sooner or later?"

"It always happens," Barbara murmured. "The funny thing is... none of us really knows where our own line is. Not until we're already toeing it."

I looked at her, curious. "Have you ever crossed yours?"

She hesitated, just for a second. "Maybe once. Or... maybe I just thought I had, and then realized the line had moved."

There was a silence. Not heavy -- just thoughtful.

"I guess what scares me," I said quietly, "is not the kink itself. It's that once you open the door, you never quite know who might walk in."

She turned toward me, her voice lower. "Sometimes... that's the best part."

I raised an eyebrow. "Are we still talking hypotheticals?"

Barbara smiled, but didn't answer right away. Then: "Let's say... hypothetically... someone else got involved. Would it scare you? Or excite you?"

I took a slow breath. "Depends. Who's getting involved?"

She traced a finger along my arm, almost absentmindedly. "Maybe someone else's husband. Maybe... mine. Maybe... yours."

I blinked. "Are you offering Ken to me? And want Archie for yourself?" I tried to make it sound like a joke, but my voice came out huskier than I expected.

"Yes and No," she said, leaning in close. "I'm wondering what it would do to us. To you. And if we'd still want each other just as much... or more."

One afternoon, as we lounged in the kitchen sipping coffee, Barbara leaned back and said, almost offhandedly, "I'm on my period. Ken's been pacing around like a dog who lost his favorite toy."

I laughed. "Poor guy."

"He just can't wait for it to be over," she added with a grin. Then, after a beat: "You know, we really ought to have a mutual agreement -- when I'm out of commission, Ken sleeps with you. And when you're out of commission, I take care of Archie."

I froze for half a second, caught between amusement and surprise. "That's... efficient," I said, matching her tone.

"All very practical," she said with a wink. "We'd keep everyone happy. No downtime. Like a proper support network."

I laughed again, a little more slowly this time.

It was clearly a joke. Delivered with a smile, no pressure, nothing overt. But I knew Barbara. Jokes like that were never just jokes. They were trial balloons. Thought experiments with heat.

And the worst part? The image stayed with me longer than I cared to admit.

Naturally, I didn't tell Archie. But the idea lingered.

It wasn't just the words -- "Ken sleeps with you, I take care of Archie" -- it was how she said them. Breezy. Confident. Like she already knew I'd laugh, maybe roll my eyes. Maybe even imagine it.

And I did. More than once.

I'd heard of arrangements like that before -- when a woman gets too far along in her pregnancy and gently, almost gracefully, steps aside. A little practical. A little indulgent. Variety, wrapped up in necessity.

But this wasn't about pregnancy.

Still, the idea stuck. Once planted, it's hard not to turn it over in your mind. That's the thing about forbidden thoughts: the more you try to push them away, the deeper they sink in. And the more familiar they begin to feel.

Archie mentioned once, casually, that Ken told him Barbara really liked him. "She always says she feels safe with you," Archie said, drying dishes beside me. "Comfortable."

I raised an eyebrow. "Safe? That's an interesting choice of word."

He shrugged. "Ken joked about it once. Said, 'I don't think I'd trust the two of you alone for too long.' Then he laughed." A beat. "Only... I don't know. Not sure it was a joke."

The four of us spent more time together. Dinners that turned into game nights. Weekends when no one seemed in a hurry to go home. And somewhere along the way, the conversations changed.

Sex crept in.

First it was jokes. Then stories. Hypotheticals. A shared smirk. A curious glance across the table.

"I mean, you two must've had wild days before marriage," Barbara once teased, swirling her wine. "Still do, I hope."

Archie smiled politely. I said nothing, but I felt her eyes on me.

Sometimes it was subtle. Sometimes it wasn't.

"You know," Barbara said another evening, "I think the couples who last are the ones who let each other breathe a little." She leaned forward, her voice a purr. "Don't you agree?"

It was another way of breaking the ice, I realized. Of normalizing what might have once felt unthinkable. Double meanings laced in every sentence. A quiet, growing permission.

It didn't mean anything, not yet. But it didn't mean nothing, either.

And maybe that was the point.

It was after midnight when I stepped outside, needing air. The evening had unraveled into something soft and loose, like silk slipping from bare shoulders. Inside, I could still hear laughter -- Barbara's low and throaty, Ken's mellow and amused, Archie humming along with a half-forgotten song.

The night air was warm. Almost too warm.

"Can't sleep?" Barbara's voice was behind me before I heard the door slide open. She stood barefoot, a glass of something golden in her hand, robe barely tied. Her hair was undone. Her face calm. Too calm.

"Just needed a break," I said.

She nodded as though she understood something I hadn't said. "You know," she began, her voice soft, "Ken thinks you're beautiful."

I turned. "Does he?"

"Oh yes. He doesn't say it often, but I know how he looks at you."

She stepped closer, and for a moment I wondered if I was dreaming. There was a drowsy rhythm to the night, a thickness to the air that made everything shimmer. Or maybe that was just her.

"He's never said no to me," Barbara continued, eyes steady. "Not once."

She let that hang in the air like incense. And then, as if commenting on the weather: "I'd never ask him to do anything that might upset you."

My mouth felt dry. "You make it sound like you've already decided something."

Barbara smiled, slow and luxurious. "We're just... exploring. Preparing the ground. That's what you do before planting anything serious, right?"

Inside, the song changed. A slow jazz number, velvety and full of shadows.

"I think about it sometimes," she said, leaning on the railing next to me. "You and Ken. Me and Archie. But not like a trade. Not like that." She turned her face to me. "More like a mirror. A little shifting of angles."

My heart was beating faster now, but I didn't speak.

"Don't worry," she added with a teasing glance. "You won't have to make a decision. Not really. These things have a way of deciding themselves."

And then she leaned in. Not a kiss. Just the faintest brush of her lips near my ear, close enough to feel the warmth of her breath.

"We're already inside your head," she whispered. She stepped back, her fingers grazing mine. "Come back inside when you're ready. I think Ken wants to say goodnight."

And then she disappeared into the house again, leaving the scent of something floral -- maybe jasmine -- and the unmistakable feeling that everything had changed.

When it happened, it hit like a one-two combination -- unexpected, but somehow perfectly timed.

It started on a Friday night, the four of us gathered on their side of the house. The usual laughter, the usual games, the invisible ritual that marked the end of the workweek.

Archie had gotten up to go to the bathroom. I remember watching him disappear down the hallway, brushing past Barbara on his way.

When he came back, he didn't make it past the kitchen.

Barbara was there, leaning against the counter with a fresh glass of wine, like she'd been waiting. Her eyes caught his.

"You've got something on your shirt," she said, her voice soft, almost playful.

Archie looked down, frowning. "Where?"

She took a step closer, fingertips brushing across his chest. "Right there... maybe a drop of wine?"

He tried to see it, craning his neck.

"No, not quite -- here." Her hand flattened against his shirt.

His gaze shifted -- straight down the front of her dress. It dipped low, the soft fabric swaying with her breath, and for a moment, he forgot what he was supposed to be looking for.

Then she looked up.

Their eyes locked. There was a silence, thick and trembling.

"You're staring," she said, but her voice wasn't scolding. It was amused. Inviting.

"I -- " He hesitated. "You caught me."

She smiled. "Good."

And then, just like that, she leaned in and kissed him. No hesitation. No build-up. Just lips meeting his like it had already been agreed upon long before this night.

He didn't pull away.

Later, when he told me about it -- because he did, eventually -- he said it felt like crossing a line he didn't know had already been erased.

"She kissed me," he said, still a little dazed. "And I kissed her back. There wasn't even a question in my mind. It felt... inevitable."

I didn't ask what kind of kiss it was. I could picture it too clearly already.

And somewhere deep down, I knew -- it hadn't been spontaneous. Not really. That kiss had been rehearsed, framed by weeks of subtle cues, meaningful glances, innuendos disguised as jokes. It was the first crack in a dam we'd all helped build.

And now the water was starting to pour through.

The next day, everything felt different. Charged. Unsettled. The kind of day where nothing really happens, but something has already happened, and you both know it.

Archie was restless from the moment he woke up. He couldn't sit still. He'd walk to the kitchen, forget what he wanted, come back empty-handed.

By mid-afternoon, he finally said it.

"I keep seeing her," he muttered, eyes fixed on the ceiling as we lay on the couch. "In that dress. In that moment. It's like I'm stuck there."

I didn't answer right away. I watched his profile, the tension in his jaw, the way he kept flexing his fingers like he was holding something invisible.

"It was just a kiss," I said quietly.

"I know. That's the problem," he replied. "It shouldn't feel like more. But it does." He turned his head to look at me. "I didn't do anything wrong," he said, almost defensively. "But I wanted to. I still want to."

There it was. Clean. Honest. Dangerous.

I didn't flinch. I nodded slowly, buying myself time. "It's just the fantasy," I said, as much to myself as to him. "It gets in, and then it loops."

"I keep imagining how it would feel," Archie continued. "Not just the sex -- though yeah, that too -- but... her. The way she looks at me. Like she knows something I don't."

He let out a short, helpless laugh. "God, what's wrong with me?"

"Nothing," I said. "You're human."

He blinked at that, surprised I wasn't angry. But I couldn't be. Not when I had my own secrets. Not when I could still feel the echo of Barbara's breath near my ear from the night before. My own mind had been busy all day -- sifting, analyzing, replaying.

I hadn't told him about my relationship with Barbara for the last month. I wasn't sure if I was protecting him or the game that was unfolding.

Archie sat up, rubbing his face. "This is going to be a problem, isn't it?"

I stood behind him, placed my hands gently on his shoulders. "Only if we try to pretend it isn't already happening."

He looked up at me, eyes searching. "What do we do?"

That was the question. My mind moved fast. Faster than his. I'd already started mapping the possibilities. But I wasn't ready to show my hand just yet.

"I don't know," I said, even though I did. "Let's just take it one step at a time."

And in that silence that followed, I realized neither of us really wanted to stop it. Not anymore. We just wanted to see where it might lead.

That Saturday unfolded like any other.

We did the usual weekend things -- laundry, fixing a squeaky cabinet door, playing with the kids in the backyard. Just regular life, humming along like nothing had changed.

But everything had changed. Beneath the surface, something wild and bright had taken root. And as I went through the motions -- folding towels, sweeping leaves, helping one of the kids with a puzzle -- I kept drifting.

I'd catch myself staring off, and the images would come rushing back: Barbara's mouth on mine, her body pressed close. And then Ken, watching us, amused and strangely patient, until he stepped in too -- confident, possessive, hungry. The three of us, tangled together in a heat that felt more like a dream than a memory. And maybe it was a dream -- but my body didn't seem to know the difference.

At one point Archie looked over at me while I was wiping down the counter. "You're smiling," he said. "What are you thinking about?"

I glanced up, blinking slowly. "Nothing," I lied. Then, after a beat: "Just... us."

He raised an eyebrow. "Us?"

I stepped closer, dropped my hand to his waist, let my fingers play just under his shirt. "Yes. You. Me. And maybe a little bit of... them."

His pupils widened, just for a second. "That kiss really messed us up, didn't it?" he said softly.

"Maybe," I whispered, leaning into him. "Or maybe it woke something up."

That night, after the kids were asleep, something came over us. There were no jokes, no buildup, no lingering TV shows. Just a pull. A low, magnetic need.

We barely made it to the bedroom.

Clothes fell away without thought, as if our bodies had already made a silent pact earlier in the day. We touched each other like we hadn't in years -- urgent, curious, overwhelmed. Every kiss was deeper. Every movement edged with something wild and raw.

At one point, he paused, breath ragged. "I keep thinking of her," he said.

I met his eyes. "Me too."

"And Ken," he added, almost cautiously.

I didn't hesitate. "Yes."

He stared at me for a moment, like that admission had unlocked something even deeper. "God," he said, pulling me closer, "this is insane."

"Maybe," I murmured, kissing the side of his neck. "But doesn't it feel amazing?"

And it did.

We made love like we were discovering each other all over again. And maybe we were -- new people, suddenly charged by secrets, by fantasies that neither of us had dared speak aloud just a few weeks before.

Afterward, tangled in the sheets and each other's arms, neither of us said much. We didn't need to.

The dream was already slipping into reality. And neither of us wanted to wake up.