The Fires

“What would you like to see?” she asks. “What would turn you on?”

He thinks. A flood of images - static and moving - rushes through his mind. As always, their weight seems to neuter his vocabulary. So many choices. So many desires. Yet he struggles to articulate any of them.

In the end, he knows his choice of response is weak, even before he utters it. But he goes with it anyway.

“What would turn you on?”

She doesn’t seem frustrated that he’s turned the question back on her. Instead, she sighs contentedly, and her eyes close. The full length of his cock is within her, his pubis snug against her clitoris. He withdraws an inch or so before easing back inside her, restoring the pressure on her tender bud. He repeats the motions with deliberation, over and over, until she’s gasping at the way he’s toying with her sex, stoking her pleasure, propelling her senses along a parabola of delight. He loves the sound of her bliss, the vision of her dreamy expression in the flickering candlelight.

Nothing has ever excited him as much as the testimony of her arousal, her satisfaction.

When she finally answers him, her voice is little more than a whisper.

“Having them both … going down on me … while I’m sucking your cock.”

He shudders. “Did you enjoy that the last time we met them? Having both of them licking and tasting you as you took me in your mouth?”

“Oh, very much,” she breathes, and the tip of her lascivious tongue traces the narrow space between her generous lips.

“What was it like? Tell me.”

“Mmmmmmm. It was lovely.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.”

“Her tongue and his tongue, on your clitoris, in unison?”

“Oh, yes.”

He watches her face, but what he perceives is a scene from their last meeting. His wife completely naked except for her stockings, her gleaming body sprawled across the double bed in their hosts’ guest room. The hosts themselves, naked as well, lying between her splayed thighs, their greedy lips and tongues upon her gaping sex. And as he replays the scene again and again, he tries to construe the almost imperceptible way with which the other man had eased his own wife aside, allowing him to feast unhindered upon the succulence of the fresh, exciting cunt laid out before him.

The memory sends ripples through his mind and his body.

He eases his hips back again, then slips inside her to the hilt once more, to the accompaniment of another delicious sigh.

“Did she press her tongue inside you?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Deep inside?”

“Yes. Deep. Mmmmmmm.”

“Did he?”

“Yes.” She draws the single syllable out.

He hesitates for a second. “Did you enjoy coming on his tongue?”

“I enjoyed coming.”

She’s always so careful with the barriers she erects for their meetings, separating the physical from the emotional, the sensations from their providers. It’s what makes the encounters palatable, even possible for her.

At the same time, he’s only too aware of his own need to probe those same barriers. He doesn’t know why. He only knows that he is compelled to.

He licks his arid lips. “Was he good?”

He cringes inside. The only question worse than this one would have been: “Was he better than me?” As it is, he doesn’t need to speak it. It already hangs in the air.

“It was … pressure,” she answers after a few moments. “His mouth, his tongue … it was something for me to press back against.” And as though to illustrate her point, she forces her sex against the resistance of his loins, and gasps at her own enterprise.

Her eyes are fully open now, and she regards him in silence. Then she lifts her face towards him, kisses him with both passion and tenderness. She lies back. “What really turned me on … what made me orgasm … was watching her slipping your cock into her mouth … knowing how good it feels to do that … knowing how good you taste. That’s what carried me over the edge. That’s what made me come.”

He kisses her again, buying himself the time to think. He doesn’t remember the other woman sucking him then. Had he been so utterly focused on watching his wife climaxing at the touch of another man, that he’d not even realised that his cock was in another woman’s mouth? He dredges his memories. He can recall the dryness of his mouth, the jealousy and the arousal burning deep within him, twin fires, equal and yet opposite in their rage. But he can’t remember the woman’s mouth on his cock. There’s not even the glimmer of a recollection.

Could his focus on one thing have been so total that it rendered him blind to all else?

And then he wonders: perhaps the false memory is his wife’s? Did she imagine seeing him being fellated by her rival? Is that what she wanted to see? Was it a fantasy fuelled so deeply by the skilful ministrations of that other man’s tongue that it coalesced in her synapses, became a tangible memory for her?

Had his rival been able to propel her that far?

Oh God.

The twin fires within him sear his ego and his heart in equal measure. He shrinks from the heat and yet he embraces its warmth. He knows - knows - that the safest thing, perhaps the sanest thing, is to end it now. End it forever. No more meetings. No more chasing fantasies until they’re rendered as flesh.

No more.

“So?” she asks.

“So what?”

“So what would you like to see next time?” She leers at him wantonly. “What would turn you on?”

And though he should confess what he’s thinking, that they should quit, that he thinks they should discuss things coldly and rationally before putting these desires aside forever, he can’t bring himself to form the words. They’re held back by the images assailing his senses, the images inflaming his lust. Images of his wife and the other woman stretched side by side along a leather sofa, their fingers busily releasing the fastenings of their clothes, drawing them aside, dropping them to the floor, until they’re both naked except for their panties. Images of himself and the other man helping each woman out of her last remaining garment as they continue to kiss and caress one another. Watching the other man’s fingers slipping over his wife’s bare sex, her gasp of pleasure blending with the other woman’s, as his own fingers sink between her plump, wet lips. Images of himself with his face between the other woman’s thighs, his tongue driving her towards orgasm, and his wife slipping beneath him, her cunt insistent against his cockhead, beckoning him to thrust inside her, fucking her even as he continues to tongue the other woman’s clitoris, even as he’s thinking, “What would other men give to experience this?” Images of the other woman on her hands and knees, being fucked from behind by her husband, and his wife snaking beneath them both, eager to taste the point of their union.

So many choices.

So many desires.

It’s all of those images, all of the delicious possibilities yet to have a chance to be, that he’s thinking of when he finally responds to her, once again with a question of his own.

“Would you like to be taken from behind by her with a strap-on, while the two of us kneel before you with our cocks hard and ready for your mouth?”

“Oh, fuck yes!” she cries.

And as her even white teeth help still the sound of her climax against his shoulder, he accepts that he has been betrayed and consumed by his own appetites once more. He understands that he needs the dichotomy, that his basest needs can only be fulfilled by offering himself to the twin fires of his lust and his jealousy.

And he knows that no matter what his reservations, no matter what, their next meeting will not be able to come soon enough.