What Happened Last Night, Pt. II

“Now what?” I asked.

Tom propped himself on one elbow and looked at me.

“You mean now as in the next 20 minutes, or now as in for the rest of time?”

“Let’s keep it simple for now,” I said. “The next 20 minutes.”

“That’s easy, then,” he said. “You’re not leaving yet.”

“Hadn’t planned to.”

He looked at me consideringly.

“So,” he said. “When you told me last night that you had once been in threesome, was it with two girls or a girl and a guy?”

“Girl and a guy.”

“At first I assumed it was two girls. But after you came over and pulled down my pants and started blowing me, I thought you might have done it before.”

So I told him the story about that night with my college roommate and his girlfriend — how we’d gotten real high at a party, how we’d come back to the dorm room and fallen into bed, how the girl had gotten my roommate and I to jack each other, and then how, while I was fucking her, I sucked him at the same time. I didn’t omit any details, either, about what it felt like to have my roommate’s dick in my mouth, what it had tasted like, and how many, many times I’d thought about it afterward.

While I was talking Tom had taken hold of my dick and started tugging on it gently. With this other hand he guided my hand to his dick, and as I recounted that long-ago episode we both started getting hard again.

When I finished the story he kissed me.

“Can I fuck you now?” he asked.

“Did it hurt a lot?”

“At first, yes,” he said. “But I think you could see how I got into it.”

“All right,” I said.

Kissing me again, more passionately, he rolled me on my back and slipped a pillow under my ass. Breaking the kiss, he dragged his tongue down my chest, down my stomach, down the length of my cock to my balls, which he took one by one into his mouth.

“Had a shower lately?” he asked.

“Just before I came here,” I said. “Why?”

He said nothing, but a split second later I felt his tongue drifting toward my hole. I flinched, but he persisted, and soon I felt the warmth and wetness of his tongue circling the entrance. The tip of it entered, and a near-electric thrill went through me.

He began to lick more vigorously, and as I got wetter he started slipping his tongue in and out. I closed my eyes. The pleasure came over me in waves; I felt myself relaxing, opening to him in a way I hadn’t thought was possible. After two or three minutes I actually felt tingling; if he keeps this up, I thought, I’m going to come from this alone.

At that moment he withdrew and I felt the tip of his finger. I was so wet, so relaxed, that he was able to slip it in without much pain. He waited while I adjusted to it, and then slowly began to finger-fuck me. I tried to move with him, and soon we were working together. Then he probed for my prostate, and found it.

“Ohhhhhhh,” I groaned. “Oh my God.”

I felt the tip of a second finger at my hole, and soon it pushed inside next to the first. This time was more painful, and it took a full minute to relax enough for him to continue.

Then I felt a third finger at the entrance, and I started to say, “Don’t.” But in it came, and I somehow opened up more, and now he was three-finger-fucking me in earnest, and I was too far gone in pleasure to say anything.

Suddenly the fingers withdrew. I opened my eyes, and saw Tom putting a huge dollop of lube on his cock, which at that moment looked enormous. I tensed, but forced myself to relax again and closed my eyes.

Then the tip of Tom’s cock was at my hole, pushing gently. I breathed deeply, relaxed again, and with one long smooth thrust, he pushed it in. The pain was sharp and hard. I must have gasped, because Tom froze. I opened my eyes and looked at him. He stayed still a full minute, until I nodded, and then he slowly began to fuck me.

Although the pain did not go completely away, it was soon overshadowed by other sensations — of fullness, of warmth, of wonder at what was happening to me. I soon realized we were both moving, searching together for the best, most pleasurable angles.

At first I had kept my knees up and feet flat on the bed; now, lifting my legs in the air, I felt him reach more deeply into me with his cock. The higher I lifted them, the deeper he penetrated and the better it felt. Finally I wrapped my legs around him, and as I did so he shifted once again. I grasped his buttocks and actually pushed him in deeper. Soon he was pumping me like a piston, and with every thrust I felt a little thrill of pleasure.

“So this is what it’s like to be fucked,” I thought, thinking of my wife and other women I’d had in this position.

Tom started to make little moaning sounds; he was clearly about to come. I felt close to coming myself, although neither one of us had touched my cock in five minutes.

I looked at Tom, his eyes were squinched shut, his mouth open, his breathing ragged. He shifted position once again and this time it was as if a button had been pushed. I felt contractions starting deep inside me. (Contractions of what? I wondered). My legs started quivering, then shaking, and I tightened their grip on Tom’s body.

Finally with a cry Tom came, in one long hard thrust I felt at the very core of my being. He pumped again and again, and then I came, too, not in the usual bursts but in a wave that built and crested and crashed. A stream of cum poured out of my cock.

The aftershocks — his and mine – went on for several minutes, and it was some time before either of us moved. Tom’s chest was pressed against mine, his head turned away from mine on the pillow. He turned it toward me, put his lips near my ear and said, “You are the best lay I ever had.”

We both laughed, which of course made my gut muscles tense and pinched his dwindling cock.

“Ooh,” he said, pulling himself out.

“Ooh, ow, ooh,” I said as my asshole suddenly contracted, and we laughed again.

We lay there quietly for some time. After a bit Tom got up, went into the kitchen. rummaged around in the fridge and came back with two beers. He handed me one, reached behind his ear and produced a joint. He raised his eyebrows comically, lit the joint and plopped down beside me. With one leg thrown companionably over mine, he settled back into his pillow, took a long hit and turned to me.
“So, tell me about your life.”

Although we had talked a long time the night before, it turned out we hadn’t exhausted every topic. We talked about our home towns, our siblings and parents, our schools and jobs and girlfriends, our wives and kids, our ambitions and achievements and failures.

After about an hour he got up and, still naked, went back to the kitchen. I heard him banging some pots around and then an unmistakable sound.

“Popcorn!” I said.

A few minutes later he came back with two more beers and a big bowl full of popcorn. Plopping the bowl in my lap and handing me a beer, he picked up the remote and turned on the TV. Channel-flipping for a minute, waving his dick from side to side, he finally found what he had apparently been looking for: a sci-fi picture about giant ants.

Plopping back into bed, he said, “Nothing better than a cheesy sci-fi move, a bowl of popcorn and a naked man in your bed.”

For the next hour and a half we watched the movie, occasionally subbing our own dialogue a la “Mystery Science Theater 3000.” We both drifted off before it was over, Tom rolling over on
his side and me spooning against him.

When I awoke it was just getting light out. Disentangling myself from Tom — during the night we’d switched sides, apparently, and now he was spooning me — I got up to pee and take a shower. I let the water run good and hot, and the bathroom quickly filled with steam.

I had been in the shower just a minute or two when the door slid open and Tom was standing there, naked and half-hard. I backed up a step and he climbed in.

Not for the first time, I just looked at him, admiring his physique. Turning him around, I soaped him slowly from head to foot, kneading the muscles in his shoulders, his back, his buttocks, thighs and and calves. He almost purred in satisfaction. I turned him round and soaped his chest, his stomach, the front of his legs and finally his cock. He was hard by now and, rinsing the soap away, I kneeled down and took him in my mouth.

Tom took my head in his hands and slowly fucked my face. I slipped a hand between his legs and, finding his hole, pressed a finger inside. His cock swelled, and I tasted precum. With my other hand I gently kneaded his balls, which brought another moan to his lips. When I felt his balls starting to contract I let go of his cock and stood up.

“My turn,” I said.
He began soaping me, kneading my muscles. I was already blissed out when he kneeled to suck me, and soon he slipped a finger in my ass. When I was near coming he stood up, soaped our cocks again and, hugging me close, starting rubbing against me. We ground together,, sliding our cocks together, clinging to each other.
In a less than a minute I felt myself staring to come. I grasped his buttocks and thrust against him. With a groan I went over the edge, spilling my cum on his stomach and cock. He pulled away slightly, grasped his own cock and in three strokes jacked himself to climax.

We clung gasping to each other, and then kissed again.

“Where have you been all my life?” he asked.

Later, over breakfast, we discussed whether we should keep meeting, and how. The first question was easy to answer — we definitely wanted to keep this going — but the second was a little trickier.

True, Tom lived alone, and could always play host, but finding a good time wouldn’t be easy — except for those weekends when my wife and kids were away, and those wouldn’t be frequent enough. Evenings were impossible; I always went straight home after work, and I couldn’t think of a plausible reason for changing that routine.

But it was easy enough, once I thought of it, to visit during the day. I was on a long leash at work, and it was rarely difficult for me to take a long lunch once or twice a week to go to the gym. We settled on the following Friday to get together next.

And a wild Friday it was, with a half-hour fuckfest that started just inside Tom’s door and ended in a sweating, heaving heap on the living room floor. The Friday after that was all oral, and so much cum flew that we had to take a quick shower afterward. The meetings became regular, and we started calling ourselves the Friday Fuckbuddies.

During my free weekend the second month, we decided to risk a visit to a gay bar across town. Neither one of us had ever been in a gay bar, and we had no idea what to expect, but it seemed like a good way to vary the routine.

When Saturday night came around, though, we started having second thoughts: What if someone we know sees us? We had asked this question before, of course, but now it loomed especially large in our minds. Eventually, though, we decided, What the fuck. We probably won’t be as conspicuous as we think.

We weren’t, as it turned out. A couple of heads turned when we walked in, and I definitely felt like we were being sized up, but we apparently didn’t stand out enough, for good or bad reasons, to hold anyone’s attention for long.

We sat down at the bar and ordered martinis — beer, somehow, didn’t seem appropriate — and looked around a bit. It was still on the early side, so the place was far from full and no one was dancing. But halfway through our second drinks, I realized the place was getting crowded and that Tom and I had to talk pretty loudly to be heard.

At one point a tall, strikingly good-looking guy sidled up next to Tom and said something to him. In the noise all I caught was the word “boyfriend,” and Tom looked puzzled.

“Boyfriend?” he asked.

The guy pointed and said, louder this time, “Do you mind if I dance with your boyfriend?”

It took us both a beat to realize the guy was talking about me. Before I could process this, the guy came around, took me by the hand and led me to the dance floor. I was too stunned to protest.

The music was a pounding techno groove that I — never a great dancer — found hard to get a rhythm to. The guy laughed and said, “Relax, babe,, I’m not trying to steal you away.”

The next second, though, he put his arms on my shoulders and pulled me close — close enough for me to feel the erect cock in his pants. I felt a twinge in my own cock, and when he started grinding against me I did my best to grind back.

I glanced over at Tom, who was watching me with something like envy in his eyes. He came over and tapped me on the shoulder.

“I’m cutting in,” he said.

I thought he wanted to dance with me but he reached for the other guy, who didn’t miss a beat while moving his crotch into Tom’s. I stood there feeling stupid for two or three measures, when I was rescued by slim, very young-looking blond with incredibly tight pants. As he moved in he turned quickly around, reaching behind him to pull me into his ass. He ground hard against me, and for the next five minutes I felt like an animal in heat. When the song changed Tom and I split from our partners — mine kissed me hard before he walked away — and started dancing together — by which I meant we stood there grinding our cocks together in the middle of the dance floor, with lights flashing, music pounding, and bodies swirling and bumping around us.

We stayed another hour, drinking two more martinis each, dancing with each other and with whoever happened to barge between us. During one trip to the bathroom I had to negotiate a hallway crowded with men making out, fondling each other outside and inside their pants, and even in a couple of cases on their knees with cock in mouth. I was groped several times going into the bathroom, and it took a full three minutes for my hardon to subside enough for me to piss.

When I got back to the dance floor Tom was being chatted up by my first dance partner. I dragged him away — not out of jealousy so much as lust.

Leading him to the car I opened the door, pushed him in and threw myself at him. My breath heaving, my heart pounding, I undid his belt, tore down the zipper, yanked down his pants and underwear and swallowed his cock.

“Jesus,” he said.

Pumping madly at his cock, I undid my own pants and started furiously jacking myself. But he was ahead of me; with a sob and a shudder he thrust into me and cum gushed into my mouth. I drank it greedily, and when the last drop was gone I came, too, spilling jet after jet of cum on the car’s seat and floor.

“Jesus,” Tom said again. “I’m going to have to bring you here more often.”

On the way back to his place we talked over the evening. In some strange way, I said, it was liberating, being in a public place where we didn’t have to pretend not to be together. He said he loved being able to kiss me in front of other people; it turned him on, but it made him proud, too.

The night ended in another fuckfest. By now we were both pretty used to fucking and being fucked, and there was little pain involved. We made the most of it.

—

Tom and I had been meeting for about three months. Except for that night at the gay bar, we had never been together outside his apartment, not even for a cup of coffee. But I thought about him all the time, and many were the nights I sneaked off to the bathroom to jack off while I fantasized about him.

We kept in frequent touch by text and email, thinking the phone was too risky. I was very careful about erasing any texts or emails that might give us away, but two or three times I nearly got caught with an incriminating email on the screen when my wife walked into the room.

When I wasn’t thinking about my relationship withTom, I was feeling guilty about the lying and sneaking involved in seeing him on the sly. Nearly every night I lay awake thinking about my betrayal of the woman I still loved. She trusted me 100 percent, and I was repaying her with dirt.

The weird part was this: although I was having plenty of sex with Tom, and jacking off frequently on top of that, it didn’t lessen my sexual interest in my wife. On the contrary, it made me reach for her more. We had earlier reached the point in our marriage where we might have sex once or twice a month, but now it was more like once or twice a week — a change that both surprised and delighted her.

We were more adventurous, too. I had hesitantly suggested she finger me in the ass while we fucked; she wasn’t very enthusiastic about the idea at first, but when she realized how much it made me swell inside her, she willingly complied. And while she had always preferred being fucked face to face, she let me turn her over sometimes and do it doggy-style.

Of course I would think about Tom at moments like these.

But if she was suspicious of me — the sudden increase in ass play, the longer hours I spent online or the more time I gave to messing with the phone — she didn’t show it. Once or twice, after a rousing bit of sex, she’d ask me, “What’s gotten into you?” I never had a good answer for that, but she didn’t seem to mind.

Then one night, a Thursday, the day before my weekly visit to Tom’s, I came home to find her alone, red-eyed and staring out the window. She was smoking, a habit she had given up almost totally when we got married and reverted to only when she was greatly upset.

Before I could ask what was wrong or where the kids were, she spoke.
“Whatever it is you’re getting on the side, I want you to stop it, now,” she said.
Stunned, I took a moment too long to answer.

“I don’t know what — ’’

“ Don’t say anything,” she said. “Anything you say now is going to be a lie, and I don’t think I could bear that.”

I sank into the chair next to her.

“Sweetheart…” I said, but she cut me off again.
“I said don’t even try. ”

I looked at her. Without turning to me, she said, “Whatever you’re doing, whoever it is, however long it’s been going on, I really don’t want to know.”

My mind was racing. How much did she know? How did she find out? Why did she say “whoever IT is” instead of “whoever SHE is”? Did she know or suspect I’d been messing with a guy? Had she stumbled across a text or email? Had word gotten back to her from someone who saw us at the gay bar? I knew she had a couple of gay friends; could they have clued her in? Or did she just know somehow, in that way some people, women especially, sometimes seem to know things by intuition?

“If you promise to end it now, I won’t throw you out of here,” she said. “We’ll still have a life. We’ll still have a marriage. We’ll still have a family. Someday I might even forgive you. But only if it’s now, and you make me believe you.”

I let a few minutes pass while I thought. I really did love this woman; always had, always would. I couldn’t bear the idea of losing her, breaking up my family. So I took a deep breath and said, “Okay.”

She got up and left the room, and that was the last we spoke that night. When I crawled into bed a few hours later, thoroughly miserable, she was already there, her face turned to the wall. I could tell by her breathing she was still awake, but she didn’t say anything. She stayed in bed until I left for work the next morning, not once showing me her face.

Four hours later I went to Tom’s. When he opened the door he was dressed only in his robe, his dick peeking through the opening in front, a big smile on his face.

“Let’s talk,” I said.

His face fell. He could tell something was wrong.

Ten minutes later I left, after the second-worst conversation of my life. He followed me to the door, tears filling his eyes, and held it open for me. In the hallway I turned around to look at him once more, half-blinded by my own tears.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too,” I said.

It was the first time those words had ever been uttered between us.

Tom, frozen in place, gave no sign of closing the door. Finally I reached for the doorknob, gave it a gentle pull. He released his grasp, and the door closed between us.

I stood there for a moment, the way I had one Saturday morning three months before. This time I heard not the faint click of the lock as I sneaked away, but the muffled sound of Tom’s sobs.

I went downstairs and outside and got in the car. I raised the key to the ignition but let it fall into my lap. I rested my head against the steering wheel and wept.