A husband a wife …and furniture (part 3 of 3)

[Da****]

The whiskey had gone warm in my hand. I set it aside and stood, and Maya’s mouth made a small, wet sound as I slipped free of her.

“Up,” I said.

Her legs had gone stiff from kneeling. She wobbled when she rose, and I caught her by the elbow, not gently, just efficiently, the way you’d steady a piece of furniture you didn’t want to see fall. Her bra was still on. A thin sheen of sweat had gathered at her collarbone, and the strap had slipped down one shoulder, but she hadn’t fixed it. She knew better.

I sat back down on the couch and patted my thigh. “Here.”

She blinked. Processing. Then she climbed onto my lap, straddling me, her knees sinking into the cushion on either side of my hips. Her underwear was soaked through, I could feel the damp heat of her the instant she settled against me. She held herself rigid, uncertain what to do with her hands, until I took her wrists and placed them on my shoulders.

“You don’t move unless I tell you,” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

Clara appeared in the archway with a glass of red wine. She crossed the room without hurry and handed it to Maya, who stared at it like it was a foreign object.

“Drink,” Clara said.

Maya took a sip. Then another. The wine left a dark stain on her lower lip, and she licked it away, and something in her face shifted, the nervousness loosening its grip, the surrendering getting easier. Clara perched on the arm of the couch again, close enough that her knee pressed against my ribs.

“She’s ready,” Clara said.

I hooked my thumb into the elastic of Maya’s underwear and dragged it down her thighs. She had to lift one knee, then the other, clumsy and flushed, and Clara took the fabric from her ankle and dropped it on the floor without looking at it.

I was still hard from her mouth. I guided myself to her entrance, and she sank down with a long, shaking exhale, her fingers digging into my shoulders. Wet enough that there was no resistance, just heat, and the tight grip of her around me, and the little broken sound she made when I bottomed out inside her.

She raised the wine glass and drank again, her throat working, and the absurdity of it, impaled on a man while sipping a merlot like she was at a dinner party, made something in my chest go tight and satisfied.

“Ride me,” I said.

She moved. Slow at first, rolling her hips, learning the angle. Her bra strap slid further down. One breast came loose, pale and small, the nipple dark, and I closed my mouth around it without asking, biting down just enough to make her gasp and clench around me.

Clara laughed softly. “She likes that.”

Maya’s rhythm sped up, thighs burning, wine sloshing in the glass she wouldn’t put down because nobody had told her to. Her breath came in short, punched-out sounds. Her hips stuttered. And then she came—a sharp, startled cry, her whole body folding forward against my chest, wine spilling over her knuckles.

I didn’t stop. I gripped her hips and drove up into her, using her through the aftershocks, until her whimpers turned into something raw and pleading. My own release came low and hard, and I held her down on me, filling her, feeling her pulse around every pulse of my own.

When I let her go, she slumped against me, panting, wine dripping onto my shirt.

From the kitchen, the timer chimed.

Clara slid off the arm of the couch and stood. She looked down at the two of us tangled together, and her expression was unreadable for a moment, then it softened into something private.

“Dinner’s done,” she said.

She walked to the stove, and we heard the click of the burner, the sc*** of a spoon against the pan. Maya lifted her head. Her eyes were glassy, sated, but there was a question in them.

“Stay,” I told her.

So she stayed in my lap while Clara plated the chicken in the kitchen. And when Clara came back with two plates, she set them on the coffee table and looked at Maya’s open legs, at the slow seep of my come beginning to drip down her inner thigh.

Clara knelt between Maya’s knees and used her tongue to clean it up.

Maya made a sound I hadn’t heard from her yet, high, keening, almost wounded. Her hands flew to Clara’s hair and Clara didn’t stop, didn’t pull away. She licked up every trace, slow and thorough, then pressed her mouth against Maya’s cunt and worked her with a flat, patient tongue until Maya came a second time, shaking, one hand fisted in Clara’s hair and the other still clutching the empty wine glass.

When Clara finally sat back on her heels, her mouth was wet and her eyes were bright.

“Taste her,” I said.

Clara kissed me. Deep and slow, and Maya’s slick was still on her tongue.

“Now you,” I said.

I turned Clara onto her hands and knees on the rug, and I fucked her from behind while Maya, still trembling, knelt beside us and pressed her mouth to Clara’s nipple, her hand sliding down to rub at Clara’s clit in time with my thrusts. Clara came with her face pressed into the rug and my hand in her hair and Maya’s lips on her breast, and then Maya came again just from watching, I felt it, the way she pressed her thighs together and shuddered, mouth never leaving Clara’s skin.

Afterward, no one spoke.

I got up and went to the kitchen. The lemon sauce had thickened, the capers had softened. I plated three portions, poured three glasses of water, and carried them out on a tray. Maya sat on the couch wrapped in an afghan Clara had pulled from the basket. Clara, still flushed and mussed, had pulled on one of my t-shirts.

We ate quietly. Forks against plates, and the occasional satisfied sigh of someone who’d earned their hunger. Maya finished every bite.

When the plates were empty, Clara stretched out on the couch with her head on a pillow. Maya lay on the rug, curled against my leg, and I sat with my back against the arm of the couch and my hand resting on her hair.

Nobody said anything for a long time.

The light through the window had gone amber, then grey. The room smelled of lemon and sex and clean skin. Maya’s breathing slowed until it was almost a purr. Clara reached down and laced her fingers through mine.

“Same time next week?” Clara asked, eyes closed.

Maya stirred, eyes fluttering open. She looked up at me.

I looked down at her.

“Yes,” I said. “Next week

[Ca****]

Is this your work?

[im****]

Finally part 3! -pushes breakfast aside to consume this instead-

[Ca****]

3 hours ago, impactgothicsub said:

Finally part 3! -pushes breakfast aside to consume this instead-

Right?!?!

[di****]

Kinda like Elias furniture

[Da****]

Tuesday at 02:54 AM, Cards101 said:

Is this your work?

It is. :)