The dim light of the pub wrapped around them like a secret. It was one of those local spots—cozy booths, low chatter, nothing sleazy, just warm wood and the faint clink of glasses. Suze arrived with her husband, Randy, settling into a cushioned corner table that offered a measure of privacy without screaming for it. She wore a simple dress that clung in all the right places, nothing overt, but enough to remind anyone paying attention what lay beneath.
When the man—let's call him Declan for the story—stepped through the door, her eyes found him first. A small wave, polite smiles all around. Handshakes. Cheek kisses that lingered half a second longer than courtesy demanded. Drinks ordered. Small talk about the day, the weather, anything safe.
But the air between them already carried weight.
Declan tried. He really did. He asked Randy about his work, nodded at the right moments, laughed when expected. Yet his gaze kept sliding back to Suze—tracing the curve of her neck, the way the fabric shifted over her breasts when she leaned forward, the subtle shape of her thighs beneath the table. He had seen the photos, the videos on the site. Now the real woman sat inches away, warm, breathing, alive. The mental overlay was intoxicating.
Suze felt it. Of course she did. She was the one who decided these things.
The conversation drifted, narrowed. Eye contact locked and held. Her fingertips brushed the inside of his thigh—casual at first, then deliberate. Declan's breath hitched. He pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to groan right there. Under the table his hand answered, sliding higher, fingertips grazing the heat between her legs. She parted them just enough. Invitation. Challenge.
“Not quite there yet,” she murmured, voice low, Irish lilt curling around the words like smoke.
She blinked slowly, then let her own hand drift to his lap. Fingers traced the hardening length through his trousers. A small, knowing smile curved her lips.
“I think I'm actually starting to enjoy this now.”
Declan chuckled, dark and strained. “Really, now?”
He pushed deeper, seeking lace, warmth, anything. She twisted her hips toward him in lazy tease, giving him hope, then denying it with the angle of her body.
Randy watched it all. Silent. Satisfied. His pleasure lived in the way she unravelled men while staying perfectly in command.
“Another round?” Declan suggested, voice rough.
“Yeah, gwan.”
They rose together. The bulge in his trousers was unmistakable as he walked to the bar. Suze followed a pace behind, hips swaying with deliberate grace. Randy stayed seated, eyes tracking them both like a director watching his favourite scene unfold.
At the bar she leaned forward to order. Declan pressed in behind her, cock firm against the curve of her arse. He ordered for Randy and himself, then dipped his mouth to her ear.
“Better?”
She rubbed back against him, slow and filthy, throwing a dirty glance over her shoulder toward Randy. Their eyes met across the room—hers wicked, his quietly blazing.
“Yeah… could be better.”
Back at the table the teasing sharpened. Innocent brushes became purposeful. His fingertips skimmed her nipples through fabric “by accident.” Her hand returned to his lap, stroking with lazy confidence. Randy joined in, knowing exactly where her buttons were, teaching Declan the map of her body stroke by stroke.
Eventually she sighed, theatrical and amused. “Think there's a scratch or two needs addressing.”
A shuffle of seats. Laughter about how she ended up in the middle, just like they'd joked in chat. The jokes faded fast. Hands disappeared under the table. Her legs parted wider. Chat turned shameless—weather forgotten, replaced by raw, matter-of-fact filth that somehow still sounded like banter.
Declan's control frayed first.
“I can't deal with this anymore,” he muttered. “My nuts are about to paint the walls. I know it's the first meet, but… fuck, this is torment.”
Suze's eyes glittered. She was visibly soaked, thighs slick, high on the fact that he was this desperate for her.
“I hope you've a big car,” she said, voice velvet evil.
They debated whose car was biggest for approximately three seconds before piling into the nearest one. Suze in the middle again. Two men mad for her.
Kisses turned hungry. Hands impatient. Declan shoved her dress up, fingers sliding through wet folds. Time stuttered. She looked at him—glitching between lust and the need to break him. Randy leaned in from the other side, tasting her neck, inhaling the scent of her arousal.
Declan's finger circled her clit—slow descent, then up, deliberate torture. She froze for a heartbeat, then retaliated, stroking him harder. Randy joined, finger slipping inside her. Declan followed. Two fingers stretching her, working in tandem. They met at her clit, traded flicks, overwhelmed her rhythm.
She lost it for a moment—body clenching, breath ragged—then fought back, hands jerking both cocks in furious tandem.
“You greedy little pussy,” Declan growled. “You want it all, don't you?”
She protested, half-laughing, half-desperate. “Stop—let me suck you, wank you, cum on my tits—”
“Yeah?” Randy murmured, amused. “We don't fuck on the first date either.”
“Maybe this is the second date,” Declan shot back. “We just changed venues.”
“Whatever works,” she gasped, “as long as I get to see you two lose your fucking minds.”
Declan pulled his finger free, smeared her wetness across her exposed nipple, then sucked hard. She arched.
A decision crystallised.
“Hotel,” she said, decisive. “You two sort the money. Half each.”
They tumbled out of the car—her first, so Declan could devour the sight of her arse, the line of her back, the vulnerable curve of her neck. Randy followed, bulge painful, proud.
Reception was quick. Suze handled it—boss-lady mode, no nonsense. The clerk took one look at the three of them and decided discretion was the better part of valour.
In the elevator she turned on Declan, furious and turned-on in equal measure. Grabbed his shirt. Kissed him like she wanted to punish him. He sucked her tongue, pinned her to the wall, hands kneading her breasts, hips grinding. Randy watched, transfixed—the live porn of his wife driving another man feral.
The doors opened.
They stepped into the corridor, already half-undressed, breathing like they'd run a mile.
And the night was only just beginning. |
