My best friend Peter - a cuckold is born

The earthquake hit at 4:11 on a Tuesday morning. By 4:12, my house was no longer a house. It was a pile of brick with a roof balanced on top like a hat that didn't fit. I stood barefoot in the street in boxers plus a t-shirt, phone in one hand, car keys in the other, watching the dust rise off my whole life. The strange thing is that I felt almost calm. Almost. The way you feel when the universe has made a decision for you, when there's nothing left to argue about.

Peter was the third person I called, the first who answered.

He didn't even say hello. He said, "Where are you?" Twenty minutes later his taillights were in my driveway. He helped me drag a suitcase and a duffel bag out of the wreckage, laughing the whole time—Peter laughs at everything—then said, "Guest room's yours, man, as long as you want."

"Thanks, man," I said.

"No problem, Keith," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. I believed him because Peter always meant it for about four hours.

The problem was that Peter had forgotten—again, in the way he forgot every week—that he was married.

Stacy was standing in the hallway when we came through the door with my bags. She wore a thin grey t-shirt plus pajama shorts, with her hair still flattened on one side from the pillow. She looked at the two of us, then at the bags, then at her husband. Her face did something slow.

"Peter," she said. "Who is this?"

Peter, forty-two years old, drunk-adjacent at seven in the morning, said, "Oh. Yeah. Babe. Keith's house fell down."

The first thing Peter did was apologize. He was good at that. He was a champion apologizer—he'd had a lot of practice, because he kept doing the thing he apologized for. He took her hands and kissed her knuckles. "I should have called. I know, I know, I'm an idiot. The house literally fell down. Look at him, look at his face." Stacy looked at me. I did my best to look like a man whose house had fallen down, which wasn't hard, because my house had fallen down.

"I'm sorry," I said. "A week. Two weeks tops."

She looked at me for a long moment. Something in her softened by maybe two percent. "Two weeks," she said, then went to put the kettle on.

It was four months.

---

Let me describe Stacy to you properly, because you have to understand what it was like to live four feet from that.

She was twenty-two. Peter had married her eleven months before the earthquake. The wedding photos were still up on the shelf in the living room; in every one of them Peter looked like a man who had won something he didn't fully understand yet. Her eyes were a pale grey-blue, almost the color of a winter sky over water.

Her breasts were full, heavy, and set high and natural, with small pink nipples the color of the inside of a shell. Her breasts moved when she walked. They moved when she laughed. They had a soft weight to them that made her shirts hang wrong in the best way. Her waist was narrow, her hips flared out of it, and her belly was soft and flat with the slightest curve at the bottom. Between her legs she kept a neat-trimmed patch of dark hair; below it were the pale folds of her small, tight, pink, married pussy.

She usually wore black stockings in the evenings, when Peter was out, when she was home alone, though nobody was looking. Thigh-highs, sheer, with a wide band of lace at the top; black strappy heels with three thin straps across the foot and one around the ankle; a wedding ring on her left hand, a thin gold band with a small stone, which sat on her finger, glinting every time she moved.

…

Here's the thing about the earthquake.

It didn't just take my house. It took my money. I had insurance, but insurance is a promise, but promises are slow. In the meantime, I had to rebuild a life out of nothing, which meant that the Friday nights that used to belong to me and Peter—the bars, the beers, the long, slow slide into nothing at 2 a.m.—suddenly belonged to nobody, because I couldn't afford them; Peter had a wife to go home to. Peter, in his own mind, was still twenty-five.

Peter found a new drinking buddy. Actually, he found six of them because Peter didn't have drinking buddies; he had an audience. Any bar with a television and a tap was his living room. He kept his old life somehow lost me out of it, not on purpose, just by the sheer weight of his own momentum.

Which left Stacy alone with me in the house. Together. Every Friday. Every Saturday. Three to four nights a week.

The guest room was right next to the marital bedroom. I mean right next to it. The wall between them was thin enough that I could hear her hair dryer through it, thin enough that I could hear the drawer of her nightstand, and thin enough that I learned the sound of her phone hitting the mattress when she dropped it.

Here's the thing that got under my skin, the thing that turned four months into four hundred:

I never heard them fuck.

Not once. Not a single creak, not a single groan, not a single muffled "oh." Peter came home at one or two in the morning, sometimes three. I'd hear him come in. I'd hear the low murmur of them talking through the wall. Then the light clicked off, then—nothing. Silence. Sleep. Two married people lying next to each other like two books on a shelf.

Four months of that. Four months of hearing her laugh at my jokes in the kitchen in the evening, four months of her shoulder brushing mine when we both reached for the kettle, four months of that wedding ring catching the light while she told me, in her flat, appraising voice, that her husband was a child.

Peter just kept being Peter.

…

That one Friday started like all the others.

Peter came home at six, showered, shaved badly, put on a shirt that was two buttons too open, and stood in the hallway pulling his jacket on. Stacy came out of the kitchen. I was on the couch with the game on, a beer I'd been nursing for an hour because I was poor. I watched her reach into her purse.

She pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. She folded it once, lengthwise, tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket, then went up on her toes—she was tall, he was taller—put her mouth next to his ear.

"If you only drink beer, you can party longer," she whispered.

Peter grinned like a kid.

"Stay as long as you want, darling," she said.

He was gone.

I watched her watch the door close. She stood there for a second, then turned, looking at me. Something crossed her face—quick, like a cloud over a field—then it was gone. She went back into the kitchen.

I went back to the game. I didn't know what was coming. I honestly didn't.

…

It was nine-forty when her phone rang.

She was on the other end of the couch, curled with her feet under her, a glass of white wine on the armrest, her hair down. Her phone buzzed on the cushion beside her. She looked at it, smiled slowly, and picked it up.

"Hello, darling," she said.

I could hear the bar through the speaker. It came out of the little phone speaker in a thin, tinny roar—voices, glass, and a jukebox under it all like a heartbeat.

"Yes," she said. "I can hear it in your voice. You're drunk, right?"

A pause. Peter's voice, muffled and far away, then suddenly loud as he leaned in.

"Yes! No problem!"

"Let me put you on speaker so Keith can hear you too," his wife purred.

She pulled the phone away from her ear, pressed the button, set it down on the cushion between us, and looked at me in a very sultry way.

Peter's voice came out of the phone, too loud, too drunk.

"Hi Keith!"

"Hi Peter," I said.

Then Stacy sat up. She straightened her back, crossed her legs at the ankle, folded her hands in her lap, looked at the phone like it was a stage she was about to step onto.

"Darling," she said, "your best friend Keith is going to fuck your wife. I thought you might like to listen in."

There was a pause on the line. A long one. Then Peter laughed, that big empty bark of his.

"Yes, that's a funny fairytale, of course, darling," he said.

"Let me tell you how it goes, because Keith's right next to me—so what does your wife have to do first?"

"Get him hard?" Peter said.

"Yes," Stacy said. "But before that?"

"Oh, I know," Peter said. "Get him naked!"

"You mean get him naked and get his cock out?" Stacy said.

"Yes!" Peter shouted and laughed; somewhere behind him a man whooped.

Stacy turned her head and looked at me.

"Do you know if he has a big cock, darling?" she said.

"Oh yes," Peter said. "I saw it in the gym."

"Well, your wife needs to make sure that what you're saying is correct, right?"

"Oh yes. Take it out. You'll see."

"Okay," Stacy said. "Let me check for you, Peter. Shall I caress his crotch first? Perhaps to make him bigger before I open his pants."

"Oh, good idea. Yeah. Rub him."

As her husband said that, Stacy reached across the couch and put her small hand on my crotch.

I had a hard-on already. I'd had one since the phone rang, if I'm honest, since she said the word "fuck" in that voice. Her palm came down flat on the outline through my jeans, pressed. I felt my whole body shift like a car going into gear. My cock jumped under her hand. She felt it. Her eyes flicked up to mine, then back down.

The diamond in her wedding ring caught the lamplight and threw a little star onto the wall.

"Oh yes, darling," she said into the phone, her voice perfectly steady. "He's growing under my hand."

"With the slightest touch," she added.

"Do you like my fairy tale so far?" she said.

"Oh yes," Peter said.

Then she unbuttoned me.

…

She did the top button first. Just the one. She got her thumbnail behind it, worked it through the hole, then pulled the denim open an inch and slid her fingers in. She made a small sound—this tiny intake of breath—said into the phone, "Oh, the fabric is so warm, Peter."

"So very, very warm," she whispered.

She did the rest of the buttons one at a time. One at a time. She was not in a hurry; it was the least hurried thing I have ever experienced. My cock strained up against my trunks, the waistband sitting low, the head pushing out past the elastic, leaving a wet spot on my stomach. She kept opening buttons around it like it wasn't there; by the fifth button her knuckles were dragging up the shaft of me through the cotton every time she moved her hand.

Then the last one. She spread the jeans open, laid her hand flat on my belly, then looked up at me. "Stand up."

I stood up. She pulled my jeans down. She took my shoes off with her feet, hooking her toes into the heels, dragging them off, one, then the other. It was the most casually intimate thing—like she'd done it a hundred times, like I was hers—I stepped out of my pants.

"Darling," she said to the phone, "now only his trunks are in between your wife's mouth and his cock. Shall I continue our little fairy tale?"

"Yes. Go ahead," Peter said as he emptied another beer mug.

"Okay. Thank you, darling." A breath. "I think I need both my hands now."

She hooked her thumbs under the hem of my trunks on both sides and pulled them down.

My cock came out of them, snapped up, and nearly hit her in the mouth. She had to pull her head back. She wanted to tease me first. Her lips—that red, that deep deliberate red—were right there, an inch away, the tip of my cock level with them. She made a small surprised sound, her eyes went wide and round, and then she laughed.

"Oh my," she said. "You were so right, Peter."

"His cock is beautiful. So big. Almost like my underarm."

Then she frowned, and her voice went sharp.

"And this cock has been sitting on our couch the last couple of months, and you never told me. Shame on you, Peter. Tsk tsk."

"Tsk tsk," she repeated.

She looked up at me while she said it; something in her face was not anger, it was worse than anger—notice, the look of a woman who has just realized she's been living with the wrong arrangement.

"So now what, Peter?" she said. "What do I do?"

"Kiss it. Underneath it. Until it twitches," Peter said. "Yes. Kiss his balls too."

"Oh my god," Stacy said, leaning down and looking. "I didn't even look at them. They're so big, Peter. So full."

"Imagine how much seed they must carry. My stomach gets all woozy from the idea if he fills my mouth with his warm cum."

"Imagine if he comes in my mouth, Peter."

"Then breakfast is served," her husband replied.

"I don't even know if I can swallow it all."

"You will manage," Peter said. "You're a good girl."

"I will give my best, darling. I promise."

Then she stopped talking.

…

She started with the underside.

She put her mouth on the shaft of my cock, halfway up, kissed it. Just a kiss—closed lips, soft, wet—then another one, an inch lower, then another one below that, working her way down the whole length of me, kissing me like she was saying goodnight to a child. Every kiss left a small perfect red print of her lower lip on the skin.

Then she got to the base, kissed the shaft again, turned her head, kissed the side of my balls—first the left, then the right—then took one of them into her mouth, and rolled it with her tongue. I made a sound I didn't recognize. She hummed in response; the hum went straight up my spine.

I was standing in the middle of the living room, her husband on speakerphone, her mouth on my balls. The game was still playing on the TV with the sound down, but none of it mattered.

Then she pulled off and looked up.

"Peter," she said. "One single ball is bigger than your wife's mouth."

"You never told me," she said, pouting.

Then she went back down, took the head of my cock into her mouth, swirled her tongue around the crown, and pressed the flat of her tongue up against the slit. My cock jumped hard in her mouth—one sharp twitch, the kind that comes from the base.

She pulled off fast and looked at the phone.

"Oh, his cock just twitched, Peter!"

"Did I do it right? What's next for me to do? Oh, order another drink first, darling," she said. "You'll need it."

There was a gap on the line. Bar noise. Peter's voice shouting something at a bartender. Then he was back.

"All set again, darling," he said.

"So, what do I do next with a new cock, Peter?"

"Well, you suck it."

"But why, Peter? He's fully erect. Shouldn't I try to have it in my pussy?"

"No," Peter said. "First it needs a good lick so you can taste what will fuck you. Trust me on this."

"As your wife, okay, I do, dear husband."

She took the phone off the cushion, set it on the arm of the couch right next to her, and said, "Okay, Peter. I'm putting you down now. You can just listen."

Then she took me in her mouth all the way down.

…

She wasn't experienced, or if she was, she was hiding it well. She took me too deep and too fast, gagged, pulled back with her eyes watering, and laughed at herself, then tried again and again. Each time she got a little further. Each time she stayed a little longer. After four tries she had me in her throat, her nose in my pubic hair, her hands braced on my thighs. She held it there, then pulled off slowly, dragging her lips all the way up the shaft so I could feel every ridge of them.

Then she worked me properly.

Her hand wrapped around the base of my cock and stroked it while her mouth worked the top half. Her other hand cupped my balls, squeezed them gently, and rolled them. She found a rhythm almost immediately—quick in, slow out, hand following mouth following hand—kept her eyes open on mine the whole time, looking up at me from under her lashes, watching my face change.

She was good at reading a man. That was the thing. She watched my face the way a driver watches a road.

She learned fast. Within a minute she knew that when she pressed her tongue flat against the underside just under the head, my knees bent. Within two, she knew that if she hummed, my whole shaft thickened in her mouth. Within three, she was using all of it, deliberately, one after the other, like a woman playing an instrument she'd just been handed.

Her lipstick came off on me. Every stroke left a smear of red at the base of my cock; by the fifth minute the whole lower half of me was painted in it—pink-red, wet, obscene—her mouth was pale, bare around the edges.

The noises were the worst part. The sounds of it—the wet click, the little gasps she took through her nose, the soft moan she made when she got me deep and held it. Under all of it, thin, tinny, from the phone on the arm of the couch, the bar. Peter's bar. Peter's world, where he was sitting with a beer in his hand thinking this was a joke.

Then Peter's voice came through the speaker, small and far away.

"You still there, darling?"

She pulled me off with a wet pop and wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist.

"Yes, Peter," she said. "Still here."

"Is it good?"

"It's very good, Peter."

"How's his cock?"

"It's in your wife's mouth, Peter. It's in your wife's mouth, in your wife's throat. It's leaving red marks all over my lips, and it's not your cock."

Peter laughed.

"Keep going," he said.

…

She took me out of her mouth and stood up.

"Peter," she said.

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to take my clothes off."

"Okay."

She did it slowly, the way she did everything, facing me. She pulled the thin grey shirt over her head in one motion. Her hair fell back down around her shoulders. Her breasts came out of it, swung, heavy, and pale, the small pink nipples hardening in the cool air, and the small dark moles on her chest catching the light. Then the pyjama shorts were pushed down over her hips; she stepped out of them. Under them she was wearing nothing. I saw the neat dark triangle of her, the pale small folds below it, and the inside of her thighs, already shining.

Then she reached down beside the couch, picked up the black stockings—the sheer thigh-highs with the lace band—rolled them up her legs, one, then the other, then stepped into the black strappy heels and buckled the ankle strap.

That's what she looked like. That's exactly what she looked like. Tall, bare except for black, the lace band of the stockings tight around the tops of her thighs, the heels making her legs longer, the small gold ring on her left hand, the pale grey eyes flat, levelling with mine.

She stood there in front of me and let me look at her. A long, long moment. Nothing on but the stockings and the garter belt, black nylon up both legs, the ring still on her finger.

"Peter," she said.

"Mm."

"Your wife is naked in the living room with your best friend, and he is looking at her like he wants to eat her."

"That's good," Peter said—tiny, far off, speakerphone propped on the arm of the couch.

"Is it?"

"Yeah."

"Good," she said, and then, "Keith," nothing else, just pointed at the couch.

I sat down.

She straddled me.

The nylon whispered across the room—that first soft drag of it—and then she was over me, thighs on either side of my hips, arms around my neck, her full breasts against my chest, and the air between us went hot and close. Her hand went down between us and took my cock and held it upright against her flat stomach. She looked at me. I felt her pulse in her palm.

She lifted herself, rubbed the head of it along the wet seam of her, up and down, up and down, four times, five, gathering herself onto the tip of me.

"God," she said, mostly to herself, but her husband heard everything. "You're so thick."

Then she lifted up, lined me up, and started to sink.

"Peter," she said, her voice having gone a little ragged for the first time.

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to sit on his cock now."

"Okay."

"Peter."

"Yeah."

"Now," she said, sinking down onto me.

She was tight. Not the tightness of a girl who's never done it—she was married, she'd done it at least a couple of times—but tight in a way that felt like she'd been waiting. Like she'd been unused. She took me in slow and steady, didn't stop, and didn't flinch. Her mouth came open and stayed open. Her eyes closed.

The first inch was a slow squeeze. The second made her breath come out in a broken huff. And the stockings crackled. A real crackle—dry, electric—as she shifted her knees, and her thighs slid along mine, and the static moved through the nylon like something alive. Little snaps of it. Tiny sparks of sound every time she moved.

Down. All the way down. To the base. Her ass flat on my thighs, the whole length of me inside her, her cunt gripping.

Then she sat there. Perfectly still. Breathing through her open mouth. One long breath in, one longer one out—the kind of sigh that starts behind the ribs.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

"Peter," she said, louder.

"What."

"Peter, your wife has your best friend's cock all the way inside her."

"Yeah?"

"All the way, Peter. To the base."

"Okay."

"No, Peter, listen to me. All the way. To the base. You've never been all the way to the base."

A pause on the line. Bar noise, far off. Then Peter's voice, small, almost lost in it.

"...Oh."

Stacy opened her eyes, looked down at me, and something in her face cracked open—and she started to move.

She rode me.

Slow at first. Slow rolls of her hips, grinding down on me at the bottom of every stroke, her hands flat on my chest for balance, her hair coming loose and swinging in front of her face. The garter straps snapped against her skin with a small elastic tick. Then faster. Then harder.

Then the sounds. Not words—breath. A soft "oh" on every downstroke, timed to the slap of her ass on my thighs. Then the oh's got longer, lower, and dragged out of her. Her head tipped back, her throat going long, the sound turning into something between a moan and a sigh, the kind a woman makes when something she'd stopped expecting is happening to her.

"Mm. Mm. Oh—"

The couch creaked under us. The lamp on the side table rattled.

"Peter," she breathed.

"Yeah."

She didn't say anything else for a while. Just rode me. Let him hear it. Every stroke pulled another sound out of her—uh, oh, mm, the small punched-out noises at the bottom and the long low ones on the way up—and she sent all of them down the line without a word of explanation.

"You feel—" she tried, finally. "God, you feel so—thick."

"Say it again."

"Thick." She rolled her hips, testing, and her cunt dragged up the length of me and slid back down, wet and hot and swallowing. "So thick, baby. I can feel every ridge of him. Right "here—"she pressed a hand to her lower "belly"—right here, so deep."

Then she leaned forward, gathered her breasts up in one arm, and held them against her chest, kissing me. Not a small kiss. A wet, open-mouthed thing, tongue in my mouth, the taste of my own cock still on her lips. She moaned into it, straight into my mouth, and the moan went down my spine like a hand.

The nylon crackled the whole way. Every stroke, that rustle, was the dirtiest sound in the room, that quiet little static hiss, because it meant she was still dressed. Still in her stockings. Still somebody's wife.

She braced her hands on my chest and picked up the pace, tits bouncing with every drop, and she moaned my name like it was a complaint.

"*There*. Right there, don't move, don't you dare move—"

I didn't. I just watched her take it. Watched her belly hollow, watched the ring flash, watched her thighs flex under the black nylon, the seam running straight down the back of each leg to where the strap pulled tight and dimpled her ass.

"You're going to make me come on your cock," she gasped, almost laughing. "You know that? You're going to come on your thick fucking cock, and then you're going to do it again. Peter—"

"Yeah."

"I'm going to come."

"Okay."

"Peter, he's—" and then she stopped being able to say anything.

"Then do it," I told her.

She leaned back—both hands behind her on my knees, spine arched, chin up, whole body open—and rode me like that. Using me. The stockings rustled the whole way.

Her cunt tightened. Started fluttering, gripping, and working me in short, quick squeezes while she ground down and chased it, and the sounds she made stopped being words and turned into pure long vowel noise, high and helpless, one hand flying up to her own throat like she needed to hold it in.

"Come," I said.

And she did. Hard. Her whole body locked and shook, knees clamping, cunt clenching so tight around me that it pulled a groan out of my chest, and she kept rocking through it, greedy, milking, the nylon screaming softly against the couch the whole way down.

When it broke, she folded forward onto my chest, breathing ragged into my neck, still twitching, still full of me.

On the arm of the couch, the phone was very quiet.

"Don't move," she whispered.

The stockings crackled one last time as she settled.

"Wasn't going to."

"You weren't going to finish?"

"Wasn't going to move."

She laughed against my throat, then lifted her head and looked at me with that ruined, happy, dangerous face.

"Good," she said, and started to ride again.

"Peter," she said. "You still there?"

She pulled back. Breathless. Flushed. Looked at the phone.

"Peter."

"Yeah."

"Peter, are you listening?"

"I'm listening."

"Good. Because I want you to hear this." A breath. "Your wife just kissed him."

"Mm."

"On the mouth, Peter."

"Okay."

"With her tongue, Peter."

"...Okay."

"And do you know why?"

"Why."

"Because he's so deep, Peter." She shifted her hips and ground down. "He's so deep that when I lean forward, he's in my throat. He's in my throat, Peter."

A long pause on the line. Then, quietly, "Jesus."

She looked at me while she said it. Held my eyes. Then she sat up straight again, both hands flat on my chest, and rode me properly.

…

It went on. The talking went on with it, because she had found something now—some seam where the talking and the moaning ran at the same time.

"Peter." A stroke. "Oh. Oh, Peter."

"Yeah."

"He's splitting me in two, Peter."

"...What?"

"Mm. Oh—" A long sigh. " He's splitting me in two. You know how it feels? When it's too much? When is it more than you're made for? Oh god, Peter, it's like that. The whole way down. Every time."

"Okay."

She laughed—a wet, broken little laugh—and it turned into a moan halfway through.

"Okay," he says. Okay." She rolled her hips. "Peter, he's so big. Do you hear me? So big."

"I heard you."

"Bigger than you, Peter."

Silence. Bar noise. Then Peter, faint: "...Yeah."

She brought the phone closer, held it up near her mouth, like she wanted him to hear every breath.

"I'm not being cruel, darling," she said. "You know I'm not cruel. But you're not in this room. You're not in this room. I've got—oh. Oh, hold on—"

She stopped. Rolled. Moaned. Started again.

"—I've got a cock in me the size of my forearm, Peter; it's touching things you've never touched. I can feel it up in my stomach—"

"...Okay."

"—and yours, Peter. Yours is—" A sigh. " Yours is sweet. Yours is little and sweet, and I love it, I do, but Peter, this one—"

She broke off, arched, and made a sound almost like a sob.

"—This one is splitting me in two."

Peter laughed; that big empty bark, somewhere behind him, a man whooped.

She rocked on me—slow now, deliberate, showing off for the phone. Grinding down at the bottom of every stroke, holding it, letting him hear the wet click of it, letting him hear her breath go ragged.

"He's not even trying," she said, soft, half to me. "He's just sitting there. He just sits there letting me do all of it."

Then louder, back to the phone:

"Do you know what that's like? A cock that big, he just sits there taking me? Let me do all the work?"

"...Okay."

"You're supposed to take your wife, Peter. You're supposed to take me. Instead, I'm up here doing all of it on something the size of my forearm, and you're three blocks away with a beer."

Peter said something low that got swallowed by the bar.

"What?" she said.

"I said, is this still our fairy tale?"

"Oh yes… oh my God, ah… yes!" she said.

And she sat up straight and fucked me for real.

…

It went on for a long time.

The talking came apart into pieces after that—half-words, fragments, "Oh, Peter, God," and "mmh"—and the spaces between the words filled up with the sound of her. Sighs. Long ones, the kind that end in a small catch at the top. Every downstroke pulled something out of her; she gave all of it to the phone. Peter heard every second, Peter said almost nothing, and the almost nothing was the whole point.

"Mm—oh—Peter—"

"Yeah."

"Peter, it's—oh god—it's so—"

"Yeah."

"He's—mm—"

"Okay."

"You're not even saying anything, Peter."

"...I don't know what to say."

"Good," she said, moaning, but the moan had a laugh under it. "Good. Don't say anything. Just listen to your wife."

Long enough that my thighs burned. Long enough that the sweat came up on her chest and her back; the small of her back gleamed under the lamplight. Long enough that the creak of the couch became the only sound in the room apart from her breathing, which had gone high, fast, and shallow, and the wet slap of her against me.

At some point the phone on the arm of the couch went quiet; neither of us noticed.

At some point she leaned back, arching, hands on my knees behind her, let me watch her—the long pale line of her throat, the sweat between her breasts, the place where we were joined, the way my cock looked sliding in and out of her, glossy, red-lipped, stretched around me.

"Look at it," she said. "Look at what you're doing to me."

I looked.

"Look at how wet I am."

She reached down with her right hand, spread herself open with two fingers, slid them along the length of me as I went into her, then brought them up to my mouth. I sucked them. She made a sound like a sob.

"Peter's never done that," she said. "Peter has never looked at them."

She glanced at the phone, seeing it was dead, said it anyway, out loud, to nobody—like it was owed to him.

She put her fingers back down and started rubbing herself while she rode me, small, fast circles at the top of her.

"And then you," she said. "Oh. Oh, god."

The change in her was immediate, truly total—her back arched, her head went back, her mouth came open wide, and her breathing turned into these long, low moans that came out of the bottom of her chest; the muscles inside her started to flutter, gripping at me in waves.

"Oh," she said. "Oh. Oh—Keith—Keith, I'm going to—"

"Come on," I said. It was the first thing I'd said in an hour.

She came.

…

It wasn't a small one. It was the kind that takes a woman over completely, that rolls through her in three long waves. She rode every one of them out on my cock, hand still working between us, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, no sound at all coming out of her for the first two. Then on the third, the sound came—long, low, almost angry—her whole body locked, shook, and then sagged. She collapsed forward onto my chest, her face in my neck, her breath hot and ragged against my throat.

We stayed like that for a minute. Her weight on me, her hair everywhere, the smell of her, her heart going like a bird against my chest.

Then she lifted her head.

"Don't you dare come yet," she said.

"Okay," I said.

"Peter," she said, turning her head toward the phone. "Peter."

No answer. She picked the phone up and looked at it. Dead. Battery. The screen is black.

She looked at it for a second, laughed, set it down on the floor, and turned back to me. Her eyes had gone warm and slow.

"Good," she said. "Now it's just us."

She got off me, stood up on her heels, reached down, took my hand, and pulled me up off the couch.

"Bedroom," she said.

"Yours?"

"Ours," she said. "Bring your phone."

To be continued.