Her nails dug into my shoulders as we moved together, breath hot, bodies slick with heat. The room felt smaller, charged, like the air itself was watching us. She leaned close, lips brushing my ear, and I felt her smile before I heard it.
“Can I tell you something?” she whispered.
I nodded, already lost in her, already weak.
“There’s a thought I can’t get out of my head,” she said softly. “About us. About… not being alone.”
My rhythm faltered just enough for her to notice. She wrapped her legs tighter, grounding me, keeping me right there.
“I keep imagining another woman,” she went on, voice low and confident. “Someone who wants us both. Someone who watches how you touch me… and wants in.”
The words hit harder than any movement. My breath caught, my body answering before my mind could. She felt it instantly and laughed quietly—slow, knowing, deliciously wicked.
“I want to see your face when she looks at you,” she murmured. “I want to feel her hands while you’re still holding me. I want to share that moment… together.”
She kissed me then—deep, claiming—like she’d already made the decision and was daring me to keep up. The idea wrapped around us, thick and intoxicating, turning every touch sharper, every breath heavier.
And as we moved again, closer than ever, one thought burned louder than the rest:
This was only the beginning.
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For days after, it lived between us—slipped into conversations over a jd & cola, murmured while brushing teeth, sent in messages that made my phone buzz a little too loudly at work. Each time we talked about it, she sounded more certain. More turned on by the idea of us choosing together.
“What if she’s confident?” she’d say casually, eyes on mine.
“What if she likes couples?”
“What if she likes watching first?”
Not knowing what to expect
Every what if landed heavier than the last.
At night we’d lie tangled up, phones in hand, scrolling side by side. Profiles. Articles. Forums. Words like curious, bi-friendly, respectful, first time jumping out at us like signals meant just for us.
She’d nudge me when she found one.
“This one,” she’d whisper. “Read that bit.”
I could feel her reacting before she even said anything—her body closer, breath slower, thoughts clearly drifting ahead of where we were pretending to be. Sometimes she’d take the phone from me, scrolling deliberately, letting the silence stretch.
“I like that she says communication is everything,” she murmured once. “I want this to feel… sexual . Not rushed.”
Other times she was bolder.
“I want her to want us,” she said, meeting my gaze. “Not just you. Not just me. Both.” To see you taking us both all our bodies entwined is all playing with each other.
Each search, each shared look, made it more real. Less fantasy. More when. The idea stopped being something we talked about and started becoming something we were actively building together—carefully, deliberately, impossibly hot.
By the end of the week, we weren’t just looking anymore.
We were choosing.
And neither of us slept much at all. Conversations all led to the same thing deep long hard intense fucking fantasy’s of what would telling each other what we wanted to happen
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