(Fictional) The Devil's Backup Dancer

I've been away for a while had a break from life over Christmas, it gave me some time to sit back and write some fictional works, so i hope you enjoy, as always your support is appreciated, you can buy me a coffee or leave me a donation, there is a pay pal short link in my bio, enjoy........ as always feedback and collaborations are always welcome, all people in any of my works are over the legal age.

"You know what I miss?" Clara said, swirling her wine glass with a sly grin. "That thing you used to do with your tongue."

I nearly choked on my drink, laughter bubbling up as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. We were sprawled across my living room floor, the remains of takeout containers scattered between us, the kind of lazy evening that only happens when husbands are out running errands and best friends have too much gossip to keep bottled up. Clara had kicked off her shoes hours ago, her toes now brushing against my thigh as she leaned back on her elbows, her tank top riding up just enough to show the smooth dip of her stomach.

"Which thing?" I teased, though I knew exactly what she meant. We’d shared enough drunken confessions over the years, late nights dissecting exes, comparing notes on what worked and what definitely didn’t. Clara had a way of making even the filthiest conversations feel like swapping secret recipes.

She rolled onto her side, propping her head on one hand. "The thing," she insisted, dragging out the word like I was being deliberately obtuse. "When you dance," she mimed a slow, deliberate flick of her tongue against the roof of her mouth, her eyebrows wiggling.

I laughed, swatting at her ankle where it pressed against me. "Oh, that thing. Yeah, that was more of a situational trick." The wine was warm in my veins, and I let my head fall back against the couch with a grin. "Why? Are you planning a revival tour?"

Clara’s grin turned wicked. She sat up abruptly, knocking over an empty container of sweet-and-sour sauce in the process. "Maybe." Her voice dropped low, conspiratorial. "But only if you promise to be my backup dancer." She reached out, plucking the wine glass from my fingers and taking a sip without breaking eye contact. The way her lips parted around the rim, deliberately and slowly, made my stomach tighten.

The front door swung open, and Clara’s eyes flicked toward the sound, her smirk deepening. "Speak of the devil," she murmured, just as my husband, Mark, stepped into the living room, arms laden with grocery bags. He froze mid-step, taking in the scene: Clara half-sprawled in his spot on the couch, her bare legs tangled with mine, the wreckage of our lazy feast spread across the floor. "Am I interrupting?" he asked, though the way his gaze lingered on Clara’s exposed midriff suggested he wouldn’t mind if he was.

Mark set the grocery bags down with a thud, his eyes darting between Clara’s smirk and the way my fingers were curled possessively around her ankle. Clara didn’t move, just arched her back slightly, letting her tank top ride up another inch. "Depends," she said, her voice slow. "Have you ever been a good boy and put the groceries away without being asked?" I snorted into my wine glass, but Mark’s ears went pink. He cleared his throat, bending to pick up the bags again. "I’ll just…" as he made his way towards the kitchen.

"Oh, don’t be boring," Clara sighed, unfolding herself from the couch in one fluid motion. She padded over to him barefoot, plucking a bag from his arms. "Here, let me." Her fingers brushed his wrist as she took it, lingering just a beat too long. Mark’s throat croaked.

I watched, propped on my elbows, as Clara hip checked him toward the kitchen, tossing a wink over her shoulder at me. By the time I joined them, she had the fridge open, her ass deliberately blocking Mark’s path as she bent to shelve a carton of eggs. His knuckles were white around a bag of pasta.

Mark cleared his throat again, but it came out strangled. Clara’s hip was pressed against the fridge door now, her shoulder deliberately nudging him as she reached past him for the milk. "You’re in my way," she murmured, though she made no effort to move. The fridge light haloed her messy bun, turning the loose strands of gold. I leaned against the doorway, biting my lip as Mark’s gaze flicked down to where Clara’s tank top gaped, revealing the lace edge of her bra.

"Am I?" he managed, voice rough. Clara laughed, a warm, throaty sound and finally stepped back, letting him exhale. She tossed the milk carton onto the counter with a careless thud and turned, catching my eye with a slow, deliberate blink. I knew that look. It was the same one she’d given me in college when she’d talked me into streaking across the quad. Game on.

She hooked a finger into Mark’s belt loop and tugged. "Come sit," she said, like it wasn’t a suggestion. "Your wife was just telling me about this thing she does with her tongue." Mark’s head snapped toward me, eyebrows climbing. I grinned, pushing off the doorway and sauntering over to slide my hand into Clara’s back pocket. "Was I?" I mused, squeezing her ass through the denim. She yelped, swatting at me, but her cheeks flushed pink. Mark stared, his pupils blown wide.

Mark’s breath hitched as Clara dragged him by the belt loop toward the couch, her fingers trailing down his thigh with deliberate slowness. I followed, my pulse hammering in my throat, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when Clara deliberately bumped her hip against his. She sank onto the cushions first, pulling him down beside her, and I didn’t miss the way his knee brushed her bare thigh. “So,” Clara purred, stretching her arms above her head in a way that made her tank top ride up even higher. “Your wife’s been holding out on me.” She turned to me, her grin wicked. “She never mentioned how obedient you are.”

Mark choked on air, his fingers twitching against his own thigh. I slid onto the couch on his other side, pressing close enough that our legs aligned from hip to knee. “Oh, he’s full of surprises,” I murmured, dragging my nails lightly down his arm. Clara’s eyes flicked to the movement, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. The tension in the room was thick enough to carve with a knife. Clara shifted, her knee brushing Mark’s again—this time lingering. When she spoke, her voice was honey-slow. “Prove it.”

Mark exhaled sharply through his nose, that ragged, uneven sound he only made when he was trying very hard not to lose his composure. Clara’s challenge hung between them like a dare, and I watched his fingers flex against his thigh before he slowly, deliberately turned his head toward me. The corner of his mouth twitched. "What exactly," he said, voice rough, "am I proving?"

Clara laughed, low and throaty, and hooked a finger into the waistband of his jeans. "That you can follow directions." She tugged, just enough to make him lean into her space. "Start with this." And then she kissed him.

It wasn’t tentative. Clara never did anything halfway. Her mouth slanted over his with a hunger that made my own pulse jump, her fingers twisting into his shirt to haul him closer. Mark made a muffled sound of surprise, then groaned, his hand flying up to cradle the back of her head. I watched, transfixed, as Clara’s tongue slid against his, as she nipped his lower lip and arched into him with a shameless roll of her hips.

My fingers found Clara’s knee, tracing idle circles as they kissed. She broke away first, breathless, her lips slick and swollen. Mark chased her for half a second before catching himself, his chest rising fast. Clara smirked and wiped her thumb across his mouth. "Good start," she murmured, then glanced at me. "Your turn."

Clara’s fingers tangled in my hair before I could even lean in, yanking me forward into the heat of Mark’s mouth. The taste of her cherry lip gloss mixed with the sharpness of his whiskey breath, and I moaned into the kiss, my nails digging into his thigh. His hand found my waist, pulling me flush against him while Clara’s palm slid up my back, her thumb tracing the clasp of my bra through my shirt.

“Fuck,” Mark breathed when we broke apart, his pupils blown so wide his irises were barely visible. Clara laughed that rich, knowing sound and climbed onto his lap in one smooth motion, her knees bracketing his hips. The denim of her shorts strained against the movement, riding up to expose the lace trim of her panties. I watched Mark’s throat work as she ground down, his fingers spasming against my hip. “You two have been torturing me for weeks,” he gritted out, but Clara just hummed, rolling her hips again in a slow, deliberate circle.

Mark's hands found Clara's waist, gripping hard enough to leave marks as she rocked against him, her breath hitching when his thumbs slid under the hem of her tank top. The fabric bunched higher, revealing the delicate swell of her stomach, the way her ribs fluttered with each uneven exhale. I traced the line of her spine through her shirt, feeling the heat of her skin beneath my fingertips as she arched into Mark’s touch, her lips parting on a gasp when his mouth found her throat.

"You like watching, don't you?" Clara murmured to me, her voice thick, her fingers tightening in Mark’s hair as he sucked a bruise into the hollow of her collarbone. She didn’t wait for an answer, just reached back blindly, fumbling for my wrist, dragging my hand forward until my palm pressed flat against Mark’s chest. His heartbeat hammered against my skin, wild and frantic, and Clara laughed, low and breathless. "Feel that? He’s fucking wrecked for us."

Mark groaned, his hips jerking up against Clara’s, the friction making her whimper. His hands slid down to grip her ass, hauling her harder against him, and the sound she made, ****, filthy, sent a fresh pulse of wetness between my thighs. I leaned in, nipping at Clara’s earlobe, my other hand slipping between her legs to stroke her through her shorts. She was soaked, the fabric clinging to her, and when I pressed my fingers harder, she shuddered, her head falling back against my shoulder.

"God, yes," she gasped, grinding down onto my hand while Mark’s mouth trailed lower, teeth scraping over the lace of her bra. His fingers hooked into the waistband of her shorts, yanking them down just enough to expose the curve of her ass, and Clara moaned, her hips stuttering. "Fuck, both of you, please"

Clara’s shorts hit the floor with a soft thud, the sound swallowed by Mark’s ragged exhale as he dragged his palms up her thighs. She arched into his touch, her fingers knotting in his hair, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts. I traced the curve of her spine with my fingertips, feeling the shiver that rippled through her when Mark’s mouth found the lace clinging to her hips. “Fuck,” she whimpered, her thighs trembling, and I watched, mesmerised, as Mark hooked his fingers into her panties and tugged them down in one slow, deliberate motion.

The air between us crackled, thick with the scent of her arousal, sweet and musky and the sound of Mark’s groan as he dragged his tongue up her inner thigh. Clara’s hips jerked, her heel digging into the couch cushions, her fingers tightening in my hair as I leaned in to kiss her, swallowing her moan when Mark’s mouth finally found her. She tasted like salt and heat, her lips parting against mine in a gasp as Mark licked into her, his hands gripping her ass to keep her from squirming away. “Oh my *God*,” she choked out, her thighs clamping around his head, her back bowing as she came with a broken cry, her fingers scrabbling at my shirt.

Mark didn’t let up, his tongue relentless, until Clara was shaking, her breath hitching on oversensitive whimpers. She shoved at his shoulders weakly, her voice wrecked. “Stop, stop, I can’t”, But Mark just grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he leaned back against the couch. Clara collapsed against me, her chest heaving, her skin flushed and slick with sweat. I traced the curve of her hip, my own pulse pounding between my thighs, and watched Mark’s gaze drop to where my fingers lingered.

“Your turn,” Clara murmured, her voice rough, her fingers fumbling with the button of my jeans. Mark’s hand closed over hers, helping her tug them down, his knuckles brushing against my thigh in a way that made my breath catch. Clara’s lips found my neck, her teeth scraping lightly as Mark’s fingers slipped between my legs, stroking through the wetness there with a low, appreciative hum. “Fuck, you’re dripping,” he muttered, and Clara laughed against my skin, her tongue darting out to lick the sweat from my collarbone.

Clara’s fingers tangled with Mark’s as they worked me open, her thumb circling my clit while his fingers pressed deeper, curling just right to make my hips jerk. I bit down on her shoulder to muffle a moan, tasting salt and the faint tang of her perfume. She hissed more pleasure than pain and ground her thigh against mine, her breath hot in my ear. “Look at him,” she urged, nipping my earlobe. “Look how fucking hungry he is for you.”

Mark’s gaze was locked on where their hands moved between my legs, his lips parted, his free hand gripping my knee hard enough to bruise. When I whimpered, his eyes flicked up, dark with want. “You gonna come for us?” he rasped, his fingers speeding up. Clara’s thumb pressed harder, and I gasped, my back arching off the couch.

“Yes fuck” The word splintered as pleasure crackled up my spine, white hot and sudden. Clara’s mouth crashed into mine, swallowing my cry as I shuddered through it, her fingers tightening in my hair to hold me still while Mark worked me through the aftershocks, his touch gentling to lazy, teasing strokes that made me squirm.

Clara pulled back first, her lips swollen, her chest rising fast. She glanced at Mark, then down at where his jeans were straining, her smirk slow and wicked. “Your turn,” she breathed, shoving my thighs apart wider to make room as she sank to her knees between them. Mark’s breath caught as her fingers popped the button of his jeans, her nails scraping his stomach as she tugged them down.

Mark’s cock sprang free, hard and flushed, the tip already glistening. Clara didn’t hesitate as she leaned in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the base, her tongue swirling along the thick vein underneath while her fingers stroked him slowly. The groan that tore from his throat was ragged, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, but Clara just chuckled, the vibration making him curse under his breath. “Easy, tiger,” she murmured, dragging her lips up his length, her breath hot against the slick head before she finally took him into her mouth.

I watched, transfixed, as her lips stretched around him, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked him deep. One hand tangled in her hair, not pushing, just holding, while the other gripped the couch cushion like he might fly apart otherwise. Clara’s fingers found mine where they rested on my thigh, guiding them to her scalp, and I twisted my fingers into her messy bun, feeling the flex of her jaw through the strands.

Mark’s free hand found my knee, squeezing almost too tightly as Clara swallowed around him, her throat working deliberately. “Jesus Christ,” he choked out, his hips twitching again, and Clara hummed around him, the sound sending another shudder through his body. Her fingers tightened on mine, urging me to pull her hair just enough to tilt her head back, letting him slide even deeper.

The sight of her lips stretched, eyes watering slightly, her free hand rubbing slow circles between her own thighs, sent another pulse of heat through me. I could see the moment Mark realised she was touching herself, his groan turning broken as Clara quickened her pace, her tongue flicking against the underside of his cock with every upward stroke.

Mark’s fingers dug into my thigh as Clara’s throat constricted around him, her moan vibrating against his skin. She pulled back just enough to flick her tongue over the head, swirling it with the kind of practiced precision that had him cursing through clenched teeth. I could see the exact moment his control snapped, his hips jerked forward, his breath came in ragged pants, and Clara’s fingers tightened around his thigh in warning.

Mark’s fingers twisted in Clara’s hair, his hips stuttering as she swallowed him down again, her throat working around him with a wet, **** sound. His breath came in ragged bursts, his free hand gripping my thigh hard enough to leave marks. Clara’s fingers curled around the base of his cock, stroking in time with her mouth, her other hand still rubbing frantic circles between her own legs. The sight of her cheeks, hollowed, lips, glossy and stretched, sent another jolt of heat straight to my core.

“Fuck, Clara”, Mark’s voice cracked, his hips jerking involuntarily. She hummed around him, the vibration making his fingers spasm in her hair, and then with a sharp, deliberate twist of her wrist, she pulled off just as he tipped over the edge. His groan was raw, his spine bowing as he came across her tongue, her lips, the flushed curve of her cheek. Clara didn’t flinch; she held his gaze, her tongue darting out to catch the mess with a slow, filthy swipe that had him shuddering all over again.

Mark slumped back against the couch, his chest heaving, his fingers slack in Clara’s hair. She leaned back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her smirk lazy and satisfied. Then, without breaking eye contact, she sucked her fingers clean, one by one, her gaze flicking to where my thighs were pressed together, my own arousal slick between them.

“Your turn,” Mark murmured, his voice rough as he reached for me, but Clara was already moving, crawling up my body with predatory grace. Her mouth found mine, tasting of salt and Mark, her fingers sliding between us to tease through my wetness. I gasped into the kiss, my hips bucking against her touch, but she pulled back just enough to smirk.

Clara’s fingers curled inside me with a precision that made my vision blur, her thumb pressing firm circles against my clit while her teeth scraped my lower lip. “Look at him,” she murmured against my mouth, nudging my chin toward where Mark was still slumped on the couch, his pupils blown wide as he watched her work me open. “He’s still fucking hard for you.”

She wasn’t wrong. Mark's cock twitched against his thigh, already half hard again, his fingers digging into the couch cushions like he was restraining himself from reaching for us. Clara laughed, low and throaty, and crooked her fingers just so, wrenching a whimper from my throat. “You wanna ride him while I taste you?” she asked, her voice all husky, her thumb never stopping its relentless pace.

I nodded frantically, my hips jerking against her hand, but Clara asked, slowing her movements to a maddening tease. “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes please” The plea splintered as she added a third finger, her palm grinding against my clit with each thrust. Mark groaned, his hand sliding down to fist his cock lazily, his gaze locked on where Clara’s fingers disappeared into me.

Clara’s fingers withdrew with a slow, slick sound that made my hips chase her touch, but she was already tugging me forward by the waistband of my panties, her breath hot against my ear. “On your knees,” she murmured, nudging me toward Mark, who sat up straighter, his cock twitching against his stomach. I didn’t hesitate. I climbed onto his lap, my thighs bracketing his hips, my soaked panties dragging against his erection as I settled over him. His hands found my waist, gripping hard enough to bruise, but Clara’s voice cut through the haze. “Wait.”

She knelt beside us, her fingers hooking into my panties and peeling them down just enough to expose me to the cool air. Mark’s breath hitched as Clara leaned in, her tongue flicking against my clit in one teasing stroke before she pulled back, grinning up at me. “Now,” she said, and I sank onto Mark in one fluid motion, his cock stretching me open with a groan that echoed mine. Clara didn’t waste a second. Her mouth was on me again, her tongue circling my clit as I rocked against Mark, her fingers digging into my thighs to keep me from moving too fast.

The dual sensation was overwhelming, Mark’s cock filling me deep, Clara’s mouth relentless and within seconds, I was trembling, my nails scraping down Mark’s chest as my orgasm built like a live wire under my skin. Clara hummed against me, the vibration tipping me over the edge, and I came with a broken cry, my thighs clamping around Mark’s hips as he thrust up into me, his own release following close behind. Clara pulled back just enough to watch, her lips glistening, her fingers stroking my shaking thighs as Mark erupted inside me, his grip on my hips tight enough to leave marks.

For a moment, the only sound was our ragged breathing. Then Clara chuckled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before crawling onto the couch beside us, her body pressed flush against mine. Mark’s arms wrapped around both of us, his heartbeat thundering against my back as Clara nuzzled into the crook of my neck, her lips brushing my pulse point. “Told you he was obedient,” she murmured, and Mark groaned, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.

The aftershocks still pulsed through me when Clara’s fingers traced the sweat-slick line of my spine, her nails scraping lightly enough to make me shiver against Mark’s chest. His arms tightened around us both, his heartbeat a steady drum under my ear. Clara’s lips found my shoulder, her teeth grazing the spot where my skin smelled like salt and her cherry lip gloss. “You’re well fucked,” she murmured, her breath hot against my throat.

Mark huffed a laugh, his fingers flexing against my hip. “Look who’s talking.” He tilted his head to nod at the mess of her bun, half-undone, strands sticking to her damp neck. Clara grinned, unrepentant, and stretched like a cat, her thigh sliding over mine in a way that made Mark’s breath hitch.

The couch was too small for three, but none of us moved. Clara’s fingers trailed lower, dipping into the sticky mess between my thighs, and I bit my lip when she brought them to her mouth with a hum. “Still sweet,” she mused, licking her fingers clean while Mark’s grip on my waist turned possessive.

The air was thick with the scent of sex and spilt whiskey and takeaway, the only light coming from the dim lamp Clara had knocked askew earlier. Shadows pooled in the hollow of her collarbone, the curve of Mark’s jaw, the space where our legs tangled. I traced the bruise blooming on Clara’s hip, Mark’s fingerprints, dark as wine, and she arched into my touch with a sigh.

Mark’s fingers traced idle circles over Clara’s hipbone, his thumb brushing the edge of the bruise he’d left there. She shivered, pressing closer to me, her knee hooking over my thigh in a lazy claim. The warmth of their bodies bracketing mine was oppressive in the best way, like being trapped between two suns. Clara’s breath deepened when Mark’s other hand slid down to palm her ass, his fingers flexing against the swell of it. “What a great evening?” she murmured, arching into his touch, but Mark just smirked, his teeth grazing my shoulder. Mark groaned, his fingers digging into my hip. “Fuck, yes,” he gritted out, Clara, her hand covering mine to still my movements.