It Could Have Been a Great Night
I always wondered what it would have been like if we’d introduced a third party into our sex life. I know it’s a bit too late for what-ifs now, but I do wonder, just sometimes. And I think that’s one of my prominent life regrets: not saying yes when I was given the opportunity to have one last bite at the girl-boy-girl bullet. I imagine it would have been a glorious occasion.
I also wonder if we would have looked back over the night with happier, hornier memories than my actual plus-one, experimental episodes. I hope so. Jealousy, possession, and awkward uncomfortableness made most of those a complete disaster, far removed from the hotter-than-hot nights they should have been; and there was even that one time that I took a completely different person to my bed than the two I’d originally planned. Oops. My mistake.
I’ve had a good sex life.
Great, in fact.
But my three/foursome activities really have been less than sexy.
She’d be a brunette if I had the choice. I know exactly who I’d want it to be. Curvy, not skinny. Tattooed and pierced, although not more so than me otherwise I’ll get body-mod-envy. And she’s gotta be confident. I’m really good at being submissive, but I don’t want an overly dominant character. Just a bit dominant. A hand around the throat and some spanking of the ass is totally okay, and I’d love a bit of hair-pulling, but I’d rather not get into serious Dom territory. Not right away, at least.
I’d want her to make the first move on the couch. I’d be keeping my eyes on him, waiting and watching for his reaction. Would his eyes turn big and bright with excitement and anticipation? Or would they be dark and deep, filled with anger and jealous fury? In my head, it’d be the former.
I wonder how long it would take for him to reach inside his jeans. At what point would he feel the overwhelming urge to reach down and grasp his cock, maybe play with it a little? When would it start to painfully throb against the restrictive material of those jeans? Maybe it would be when she slipped her hand under and up inside my t-shirt, weaving her fingers around my nipples and watching them spring to life? Or it might happen as we were kissing, her hands roaming through my hair, holding the back of my head and not letting me get away as her tongue flicked and rolled and danced around mine.
I reckon it would probably happen when she pushed up my t-shirt, revealing my bra-less tits, kissing and licking her way around my torso. He never could resist my tits. My curvy, tatted-up brunette would love them too. More than that, she’d appreciate them. She’d lap her tongue around my nipples and use her hands to massage and grasp my flesh, paying so much more attention than any man had ever done. That’s what I’ve always loved about taking a woman to my bed: they understand; they know.
Of course, my gorgeous brunette would soon notice the effect all that nipple-play had on the rest of my body, my hips ever-so-slightly bucking and swaying to the same rhythm that her fingers deftly danced. And she’d hear the change in my breathing, more ragged than it had been during our heavy make-out session, but not quite as ragged as it was going to be. Just the thought of her tongue sliding down, down, down would make me shudder with nervous excitement. It would only be a matter of time before her head dipped from my breasts and down across my stomach, trailing her tongue over my goosebump-riddled skin and leaving a stream of saliva as a glistening mark of where she’d been.
That’s when she’d look me right in the eyes, demanding my undivided attention while unbuttoning my jeans and pulling them down. Not just down; all the way off, throwing them behind her. I think that’s probably when he would get up off the couch, on the other side of the room, and make his way to the big leather one we were on, kicking his jeans off along the way. It’s not like they’d contain his dick, anyway. It would definitely have been released by now, and there’s no way he’d be able to keep himself to himself at that point. We’d make a point of that, me and that beautiful brunette.
His t-shirt would need to come off, and the socks. He knows how I feel about socks left on. And as he undressed, I’d be taking my sweet time peeling away whatever clothes were left on my beautiful brunette. Unwrapping her. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a little present. Letting the material of her soft cotton panties trail a little longer against her skin than was necessary. It would be a little for their benefit – his and hers, but mostly for mine. I’d want to get to grips with her beautiful body, her beautiful tits, just like she’d done with mine. Make her shudder with excitement, give her flushed cheeks, cause her to release that delectable little moan. She wouldn’t let me right away, though. Not yet. Maybe later? Let’s see how it goes? I want to touch her, badly, but I also kinda want this to be all about me. I’m selfish like that.
I can feel the heat rising between my legs just thinking about this, so the reality of it actually happening would definitely leave a damp patch in my underwear; but that would make her smile when she saw it, in an almost-accomplished way.
Almost accomplished, but not quite.
Yet.
The real accomplishment would come a little while later, once she’d wrenched away my panties and we were both naked. I’m not sure what kind of underwear I’d be wearing. Probably those lacy little black French panties I have, with the red trim. They’re just transparent enough for her to see I’m completely shaved, plus I love the sharp contrast between the erotic, thin material of them and the boring, old, and much-worn denim that cunningly hid them away. They feel amazing against my skin too. Soft, sensual, but with just a touch of roughness.
That night? It wouldn’t be planned. Hoped-for, hence the sassy panties, but definitely not planned. It would be just one of those spontaneous things that happened on a random Thursday evening, one too many joints smoked and the lights turned down low. Especially with that lava lamp I loved turned on in the corner, which sounds like such a cheesy, 90’s vibe, but the red, orange and yellow glow dancing around the room always seemed to set the most sensual ambience. I imagine it would be almost hypnotic to watch those flickers of light prance and skip across the glorious contours of her body,
Music would play in the background too, of course. I always find that the right music turns a great sexual experience into something so much bigger and better, almost as though the soundtrack helps to cement that hot, steamy memory into your mind for the rest of time. Just listening to a song that once played in the background as I climaxed hard with a great lover is enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my thighs clamp together in a completely uncontrollable reflex, but it needs to be the right kind of music. Something slow. Sexual. Passionate. A consistent and steady buildup with a devastatingly powerful crescendo, just like the rest of the experience.
Make It Rain by Ed Sheeran.
Swim in the Light by Kid Cudi.
One Caress by Depeche Mode.
One of those would play in the background as she made me climax for the first time. The first of many excruciatingly pleasurable orgasms, first from her, then from him, then from her again. We’d make a night of it, because why wouldn’t we? Grasping, touching, kissing, sliding in and out of each other until daylight started to peek through the windows again, still smoking, still listening to music, getting higher and higher together, just the three of us. It would be like no one and nothing else existed. Just us. Not the neighbours. Not work. Not our phones. Just us. Enthralled with each other. Obsessed. Naked bodies tangled together, twisting and contorting with a torturous buildup, followed by a frenzied and almost violent release, over and over again.
Anytime I heard those songs afterwards, they’d remind me of her. Of him. Them. That night. I’d need to fight the urge to slide my hand down into the front of my panties and touch myself the way she would have touched me, and he’d know that. He’d use it to his advantage – and for his fun. But it wouldn’t matter how much he enjoyed himself or how amazing his memories would be or how hard he might cum, I’d cum harder. My memories would be more amazing. I’d be the one who enjoyed the night more. He never needed another woman, that’s what he always said. Never needed nor wanted. I was everything. Enough. But with that beautiful brunette right next to me, I’d be more than enough. We’d be more than enough. We’d be mind-blowing.
He’d never forget about us or that night.
None of us would forget.
It would have been a really great night.
It could have been a really great night.
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