It becomes his fault when I come…but that’s later.

I can tell you all the things you want to know - who did what to whom and how - but that’s just math and math is boring.  I can tell you how I ‘felt’ and how I still ‘feel’ but that’s bullshit.  He sitting off, over there, watching some television show about fixing up hair salons, and I’m here, chain smoking, telling you things I maybe shouldn’t.

(If I know you in real-life, sorry.)

The threesome didn’t bother me: I know that’s something he really likes.  And it doesn’t bother me it’s a threesome with a woman: he never tells them we’re married and I say little.  And we’re both handsome enough, fit enough, charming enough.  You know, enough to the point necessary.  But this time it’s different and I don’t want to tell him why.

We’re fucking, the three of us.  This woman, for a bit, she says she wants to see us fucking and we do and she masturbates to our fucking and she comes and says she wants to come with both of us inside her.  Are you surprised to hear this?  More women will readily admit this when they’ve seen two men fuck: FACT.  So, he pulls out of me and lay her on top of him and slide inside her from behind.  They kiss all the while.  He sucks on her tits which he knows I hate but, you know, whatever.

Not that I don’t enjoy myself, no.  But I’m a tool in the same way a hammer knows it’s a tool: we have a task in this situation and that is what we’re here for.  I’m his tool because he wants to fuck some woman with me (and me?) at the same time.  If this isn’t devotion, I’m not sure what is.  Insecurities, by the way, are for assholes.

Every time we invite a woman over, everything works out the same way.  Good looks are an accident, but never underestimate a woman’s filthy mind.

I never come is the thing.  Ever.  We fuck safely with other people and I never come because I outlast ‘em all every time.  I don’t hate orgasms and come but this is nature.  I only come when it’s the two of us and he’s on his second load up in me.  Nature’s either a cunt or really awfully sweet for me.  And we’re fucking this girl who reminds me of some movie actress but if only for that acne scarring on her forehead.  She has really nice boobs, and in another situation I might’ve asked her what that color shadow that was and we would’ve had brunch on Sunday.  But this is now and my cock’s in her ass and he’s fucking her at the same time, his hands on my thighs and I come.

For what feels like hours, there is fire in my head and my body looses control and I come.

And he comes.

And so does she.

After that, I say something about the shower and retreat to the bathroom and he lights up a cigarette for her while she reaches for her phone and lipstick.  In the locked bathroom and I feel weak in the same way a teenager might after his first fist fuck.  As if my body’s hollow (what a shit cliche, eh?) and imagine I didn’t just shoot my jism into the already-discarded rubber: I shot my soul out too.

After she leaves, he says that was good, didn’t I think, and I don’t so much want to slap him as tell him to call her back inside.  I do neither.

Now, days later, he’s watching television and I can’t stop thinking about that.  The feeling hasn’t gone away.  I don’t feel physically any different only…a little askew.  We’ve fucked since.  We’ve not fucked with anyone else.  He seems perfectly okay.  Did that woman fuck the soul out of me?  How stupid does that sound?



[link to visionaria’s photo and story guideline.]

[[goodnight!]]