Hot Girls Share
I pushed her on the bed, every light on, and pulled out some warming oil. I drizzled it over her naked pussy, and I did the same for myself as she watched with half-closed eyes.
Her hands were at her sides. Her shyness creeped back. I took my oiled hands and moved them up her body, until I was massaging her breasts, lightly pinching and squeezing her nipples while our pussies pushed against each other.
We worked each other. Kissing slow, grinding hard, keeping the pressure on, and fucking against each other.
I wanted her.
The thought resonated like bad porn stuck in a loop. I wanted my best friend. It wasn’t the first time I’d had the thought, generally I lusted after Kylie when we were wine drunk and giggling over TikToks.
But I’d open-eyed dreamed about her mouth on my clit more than one bean-flicking session.
And right now we were dead-ass sober, trying to build an Ikea shelf.
“We should have waited until Don came home,” I said, throwing the stupid instructions with the stupid faces across the stupid room. “Now we have to burn this and buy a new one, so he doesn’t know.”
Kylie gave me a death glare, went into my kitchen and opened a bottle. She handed me a tall glass that was half the bottle.
“Shut up, bitch, and do your job,” she said.
I wanted her.
Kylie was a bitch if you didn’t know her. Hell, she was a bitch if you did. But she would lie on a train track with a speeding locomotive heading for her if it helped a person she loved. There was something about that tough shell that I wanted to crack.
We clinked glasses and took a few big swallows.
We both sat on the floor, the hellscape of pieces and tabs around us.
She crawled over me to grab the instructions, and I inhaled audibly. Kylie turned her head so her dark brown eyes met mine, and I wet my lips, and pushed a strand of hair out of her face.
“Don’t want you do get a hairball in your colon, whore,” I said quietly.
She sat back quickly and grabbed her wine. So did I.
The warmth of the wine and the shittalking led to the first bottle of wine gone in record time. We abandoned the shelf as the conversation deteriorated as fast as the wine disappeared.
“You are so full of shit, you can’t get high off coffee in your butthole,” I yelled as I screwed in the wine key for the second bottle.
Kylie covered her mouth and stifled a burp.
“No, I swear, I saw a clip on Insta, and it’s supposed to be addictively euphoric,” she said, wide eyed and earnest. “Also you can get wasted fast putting alcohol in your butthole.”
I held the bottle up as an offering to her.
“No way, you can get that shit stuck in your ass and then you have to get it surgically removed,” she said. She grabbed the wine bottle and poured another half-bottle pour in our tumblers. She passed the empty bottle back.
“I’d just have to live like that,” I said. “I’m not going to the hospital with a wine bottle in my ass.”
We broke into wild peals of hysterics at the same time. I bent over the counter, whooping and slapping the counter. Kylie laughed so hard she snorted. I pointed at her and screamed. We both fell into each other and sank in a pile next to the fridge.
“Oh god, stop it,” I yelled. “I’m crying, Ky!”
“Deenie, oh god,” Kylie said, and she snorted again.
Nothing was funnier than when that bitch snorted. She hated it and that made it even funnier.
The cycle repeated itself until we laughed out of it.
We sat shoulder-to-shoulder, back against the fridge, wiping our eyes and occasionally throwing a big belt of the ha-has out.
I leaned my head back and drank the wine, staring at her in a happy glow. Kylie’s skin was damp, her cheeks bright red and her short, dark hair tousled.
I leaned in and kissed her.
At first she was still. My soft mouth pressed against hers with no resistance. Her eyes fluttered shut and she leaned in. I set my glass behind me and cupped her cheeks in my hands, moving to my knees so I could taste her mouth. I’d dreamed of this moment for half our lives.
Taylor Swift suggested you ruin the friendship on a recent album. Girl, I see you. I was going to fuck this shit all of the way up.
Kylie pulled back, and I let her.
“Deena?” she asked softly, eyes wide, cheeks flushed even more. Her hands shook a little as she set her wine glass down.
I leaned in and she met me halfway this time, intense and chaotic. I couldn’t tell which of us moaned first, but it was the most erotic sound I’d heard in a long, long time.
I moved so I was on my ass, and I pulled her to me, so that she was in my lap, her legs wrapped around my waist. I ached, everywhere, to touch her, to taste her, to feel her skin on mine, and her hands dug into my hair as our lips slanted over each other.
She pulled back as my hand reached under her t-shirt.
It was an ancient concert shirt from a hometown punk band we saw to celebrate our 21st birthdays, nearly 10 years ago.
Kylie let me lift the shirt over her head and she sat above me, her arms on my shoulders, my hands at the soft, soft skin at her waist. My thumbs traced figure eights on the top of her hips and skimmed slowly up her sides to the underside of her bra.
She leaned down and kissed me like the dino-killing-comet made its way back to earth and we were in the path.
As I made it to second base, every inch of me on fire, my husband walked in.
I wanted her.
I wanted her to come. I wanted to come with her.
She grabbed my trembling shoulders, and pushed my body up, as I tried to collapse into her softness, and mashed her clit against me like I was a pillow to be humped.
I moaned her name and pushed onto her harder, legs shaking, nipples throbbing, pussy clamping so hard that I nearly sucked her labia in me. She grabbed my nipples with her thumb and forefingers and cussed as she fucked up, fucked hard, and pushed me over a second edge.
Don leaned against the stove. Kylie hauled ass in tears. The Ikea shelving lay strewn around my house, mocking me.
I finished my wine unsure what the hell I was going to do.
“How long, Deena,” he asked softly.
“That was our first kiss,” I replied not looking up.
“Why should I believe you?”
I rubbed my forehead.
“I don’t know, Don,” I said honestly. “We were putting together the shelves.”
“And her shirt fell off?” he prompted.
“I took off her shirt,” I said.
Don was pissed. I didn’t blame him; I would have been pissed if I walked in and a half-naked woman was on his lap.
He folded his arms over his chest and tilted his chin, prompting me to go on.
“We were talking about coffee enemas, and wine bottles in our ass, and it was funny,” I said. He was not moved by my explanation. “We were laughing on the floor, literally LOLing, and I kissed her.”
His breath whooshed out like I’d punched him in the gut.
“And she kissed back and I got a little carried away,” I said, lamely.
“That is the most fucked up thing you’ve ever said, Deena,” he said. “That’s the most fucked up thing you could have done.”
I took another drink. I didn’t have much defense.
“We didn’t fuck, Don,” I said softly.
He was explosive.
“Well that’s great, but you spend half of every day together,” he yelled. He slammed a cabinet we’d left open shut. “So do I wait it out, just sit here and wonder if today is the day you fuck Kylie every day of our life?”
I was wrong. I knew I was in the wrong. But Don didn’t yell at me. We didn’t have a relationship like that. We talked about stuff that bothered us. Yelling was a boundary we didn’t cross.
The fact he yelled at me made me want to yell back.
“I’m not going to fuck Kylie,” I yelled.
“That’s a fucking lie,” he said pushing away from the counter. He stood right in front of me, close enough my boobs would have touched his chest if I inhaled hard. “You would have fucked her tonight if I hadn’t come home.”
I shut my eyes and reached for the wine glass tumbler. It was nearly empty. My head was swimming and I couldn’t articulate what I was feeling.
“Tell me I’m wrong Deena,” he said.
I couldn’t.
He knew I couldn’t
“I’m going to bed,” he said.
“Don,” I said, voice breaking. I was a little drunk and it just really soaked in that I fucked up, that I really, really fucked up.
“I need some space tonight,” he said.
I watched him as he went into the bedroom.
We had a boundary and it was nonnegotiable: We don’t fuck other women.
By ourselves.
She came loudly and I rolled off her immediately, making her shriek as I interrupted her climax. I moved down and picked up her orgasm with my tongue, the tang of her desire biting, and intoxicating. She was wet. Slick. I kept firm, flat pressure on her clit as I pushed two fingers inside her.
Being conditionally poly is not the joyride you think. We have pretty hard limits. We were essentially monogamous with designated playmates. Nothing ever lasted though.
Our relationship came first, which meant we couldn’t really invite someone in full time. It isn’t fair to invite a third person to share your life when they were just the sex toy.
So we talked about our fantasies, and we acted them out when we could. We used the fantasies as fodder for better sex when we couldn’t – which was more often than not.
It was good. It was really good.
Swingers parties were hit or miss with us.
Don didn’t want to see another dick anywhere near me and the heralded unicorn, a single female who wants to play with a couple, was as rare as the mythology.
The few women we encountered who were looking to play with a couple had the male-worship fantasy. One of us rides his dick and the other his face, or both of us take turns sucking dick.
It wasn’t good enough to go back for more.
We ran into a couple who wanted to play cuckold, and that involved Don fucking a woman without me so we had to decline.
We tried a few swaps where the girls played, the boys watched, and then we got fucked in tandem by our own partner.