Thursday, December 26, 2013

Because We Forgot.

We forgot we don’t talk like this.  A simple drink on an unimaginable weekend without a place to be.  We forgot to stop at one drink, forgot we don’t look at each other the way we’ve been looking at each other, forgot to laugh off the looks the way we usually do.

So, we forgot.  We forgot not to fuck.  Like we fell into it, really.

See there’s this place that’s not called drunk but is all about drinking away the world around you.  In the right dark room with the right candle burning on and going out between you and the right music and the right people saying whatever the people around you at bars say.  There’s this smokey fog that has beat the smoking ban that can wrap around you, and so you’re just drinking with this other person, and so you’re just drinking at this other person.

We drank ourselves there, laughing until our chests hurt at jokes no one else would get or would think were funny at all.  At first our legs would bump under the table and so we would move away and move back and away until one time we laughed right up against each other and stayed that way, our legs right against each other and bodies right there and far too close for two people who don’t like closeness.  

One word about it would have ended things there.  One laugh about the touching would have led to one more drink before we went home in opposite directions, but we forgot.  We forgot to make the joke, forgot to stop the touching before we got closer, before we were laughing into each others necks, before we ordered one drink for both of us, sipping something like fire in turns because cheap was all the money we had left.

We weren’t drunk really, but the bar was behind us and we walked each other to my car in the snow, arm wrapped in arm, holding each other up to whatever force was working opposite.  

I opened the passenger door and she climbed in with my arm still in hers, we slipped, we fell slightly less than half in, and tugged me in the rest of the way, reached to close the door behind. We slipped and fell, really, into fucking.  Keys started the ignition of a car with no driver.  She turned up the radio, we waited for warm.  Snow covered the windows, fell like smoke around the car.

I remembered not to talk. We forgot all the things that we do not do.

I kissed her neck because it would have felt weird not to.  She bit mine, just above the shoulder.  I wrapped my hand in her hair, pulled her hair back to kiss down her throat, to bite her ear, to bring her lips up to mine.

The two of us, the two of us that almost never touched, couldn’t stop.  Every part of me not touching her felt wrong, so very few parts of me weren’t touching her.
We forgot to feel weird about kissing, or remembered that it could have felt weird well after we started kissing, well after it didn’t feel weird.  Well after it felt much better than weird.

She moaned when I grabbed her hair.  I moaned when she grabbed my cock.  The snow fell around us.  For an awful, hungry moment we pulled apart.  Jeans were tugged down around one ankle, jeans were unbuttoned and pushed down.  I pulled her on top of me as hard as she pushed me under her and we were against each other again.  My coat was open, but I kept my hat on.  

We forgot about everything that comes before fucking.  She grabbed my cock, pushed it between her legs, pushed herself onto it.  She bit my neck much harder than before, kept biting until I pulled her head away.  She moaned and kept straining against my hand.  I pulled her hair hard, pulled her down on my cock.  We moaned together.  

We fucked in all the space we had.  

While we fucked she punched the door, the seat behind me.  She pushed her face against my shoulder, dug her fingers into my back.

Just before she came, she leaned back to turn the radio up.  I pretended I couldn’t hear her.  She forgot to really care.  Climbing from me, her hand held hard between her legs trying to hold onto her orgasm, she pushed me across the seat towards the steering wheel.  She reached up and grabbed the wheel as she took my cock in her mouth.

I came above the noise of the radio, and just under the snow of the car roof.  She put her head on my chest and turned the radio louder.  She left her head there one breath.  

By the second breath we both started to remember.  In the third breath we kissed quickly, and by the fourth the door was open and closed.  There was a smile and a wave from across the parking lot.

So this didn’t happen, wasn’t close.  This too, this especially, was forgotten.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

Dangerous Behavior

I should have known I was in trouble during our first staff meeting together.  It was one of those special meetings off site.  There was food, which meant there was bad news.  There was drinks, which meant people would talk about their feelings and share their fears and feel free to continue to take far too seriously a bunch of stuff that isn't that big of a deal.  Someone would use the word “oppressive” in reference to a policy about the copy machine.  I would sit and think indifferently about everything.
It was her first, and she sat across from me.  When the manager from the other site said something about fighting injustice through a five minute lengthening of lunch time, she wrote on the top of my agenda, “what the actual fuck?”  I wrote on the top of hers, trying to write upside-down to amuse myself (and, of course, to amuse the cute new girl), “Yep.”  
“Your P is backwards, asshole.”
So that’s when I fell in love.  That’s when I should have known I was in trouble.
We walked across the street after the meeting, actually using a side-door so no one would see us and come with.  We went for a drink that became three.  We talked more in one night than I had talked with anyone at work in three years.  I walked her to her car, she opened her door and hugged it from the inside, her shield against the awkward end of the night hug-or-not-hug moment.
“So, do you want to be work best friends?”  I’m not always so clever or cute as I try to be.
“Fuck, gross.  I don’t do work friends.”
“Real friends, or nothing.”
“Real friends it is.  Fuck work.”
“Fuck work.  Night.”
She was two red lights on the road before I thought about anything.

Our first night together was at her house.  I showed up late, serving time at a socially-mandatory work happy hour she skipped.  I stepped over half a pizza and an empty glass pipe on the way to a couch that was half pillows.  She collapsed next to me and put her head on my shoulder and we watched the second half of the movie she was in the middle of.  We got really into it, but I don’t remember really what it was.  
We each have a rule about messing around with coworkers, and good reasons to follow that rule.  So it was, perhaps, less than wise when I kissed her neck.  She could blame it all on me and my kissing, and my fingers resting under her ear and neck.  Sure, those things happened, but the squirming, I tell you, the squirming.  All of my touching was focused points, a fingertip and a place and pressure, my lips there, and this freckle on her neck and the curve of her shoulder.  All of her touching was everywhere, her whole back against my side, her neck and cheek and eyelids against my lips, her hips against my will power.  
When she turned to face me, we didn’t kiss.  We brushed lips against lips and left them there, we stretched the moment before the kiss into half of the last half of the movie.  We kept tumbling over the cliff, and then somehow clawing our way back up.
And so it was, sincerely drunk with touch that I asked her if I could touch her.  She said, “that depends,” and then kissed me in soft slow motion, moved her hips against my hand.
“Depends on what?”
“I don’t know.”
Sometimes just touching is enough, is more than enough, is more than anything else.

We waited a week.  I smiled bashful towards her in the hallways at work.  She smiled at me warm and friendly sometimes, and sometimes like she was circling, and I was prey with a broken leg, bleeding badly.  It’s hard to say which I liked best.
A week later there was a concert, and she was going with some friends, but maybe those friends would back out, and would I come with, and yes I would, and the friends backed out, and it was payday, and we got there early for extra drinks.
The concert was packed, sold out by the time the opener finished.  We rushed to get towards the front, packed in with flanneled, bearded people in skinny jeans.  We got really into the show, but I don’t really remember what it was.  Sometimes I left to go to the bathroom, and came back with more beer.  Sometimes she left to get more beer and came back with whiskey.
She stood in front of me so she could see, and I could wrap my arm around her, then she would move her hips mostly generally with the music but pushing back, and her neck would taste like the whiskey of my last kiss, and my hand under her shirt on her stomach for two songs would be seen by no one in the crush of people, and my fingers sliding under the button of her jeans would make her lean her whole head back to kiss me between my beard and flannel shirt.
She pretended to get more into the show. I slide my fingers further down.  She pretended to get really into the show.  There were bodies against us everywhere in darkness, everyone looking up at the lights of the show. Only I, I'm sure, noticed the change in her breathing, the shorter breaths, the bitten lip. Only I felt her wet against my fingers. She came for our first time in complete privacy in a room of a thousand people. I held my hand against her for all of the song after until she leaned her head back again, “should we go?”

Before we were out of downtown, she had my pants open, had me in her hand.  She turned the radio on, turned the radio up.  I watched the road closely, chose the slow route home, drove slow.  
She was slow too, slow lines up and down, pressure here, sliding thumb there.  Slow and slow and slow.  
She lifted one of my hands from the wheel, breath, placed it on the back of her neck, breath, put her head against my chest, breath, against my stomach, breath, breath, in my lap, put her lips on me.  She kissed me like we kissed on her couch, slow soft, with each lip and tongue and not her whole mouth.
We drove blocks, drove miles, drove through lights, drove through night.
We drove past her house, past my house.  Drove until the roads were curved and lined with trees, and still she was slow, kissing, touching.
We drove to the highway onramp, and as I pushed my foot down, as the engine worked over the radio, she took me in her mouth.  The lights rolled through the car faster as we drove.  I’m sure I knew then where I was going, but I can’t remember now.
I know that when we reached speed, I lifted my foot up, and her mouth was gone.  I put my foot back and it returned.  I went faster, and so did she, and when my foot pushed to the ground, her lips slid far enough for her to choke, but she kept them there, kept pushing until I let my foot up.
I drove too fast, tried to slow down and she matched our speed. I tried to handle slowing down without going insane, tried to speed up without going too fast.
I knew I was in trouble in our first staff meeting.  I knew I was in the right kind of trouble as we hit the interchange, took the long circle around our city, kept the radio turned up loud.

Save me
She was texting me.  This was a few weeks after the concert.
I was texting back.  I was out with quiet friends at a quiet bar.
Bachelorette Party downtown.  Brother’s future wife’s friends.  Awful.
Should I come join?
Not unless you like watching dueling piano players sexually harass drunk idiots.
Just come get me.
You can leave?
I like we both use punctuation in our texts.
No, but come get me.  I’ll make a dumb excuse.
So there I was on one of those corners in downtown that make the paper the next day because some shit went down.  One of those corners where people act like anything but people, treat each other as nothing but threats and conquests.  So there she was, waiting for me in a black dress that told me she had high hopes for making the best of a shitty night when she got dressed.  She did not look pleased as she climbed in the car.
“Fuck this place.”
“Absolutely, fuck this place.  How long do we have?”
“I told them I was meeting a friend from out of town for a drink.”
“So we’re getting a drink?”
“Fuck no.”
So she grabbed my crotch over my jeans, and I put a hand on her thigh at the bottom of her dress.  So she grabbed my wrist and slid my hand up.  So we drove out of downtown again, this time towards the river.  So we saw this parking spot that may have just been some dirt.  So we saw it together, I drove in and parked.  So it was dark, so past the darkness in front of us was the river and behind us was the front of a hotel and behind it was the city.  So we locked the doors, we watched and waited, and so when nothing happened, she slid down across the front seat and I leaned down to kiss her.
“Fuck downtown”
We don’t always use punctuation while we’re talking.
She was undoing my pants, pressing her hand against the top of me, sliding it against her.
I was looking out of the window above her head.  I was looking for cops or murderers.  “Do we really want to do this here?”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Good point.”  She had a good point.
A car is not enough room to do it well, or to do it comfortably, but is plenty of room to do it anyway.  Room enough for her to reach down and touch herself while I pushed one arm against the car seat, one against the dashboard while her head pushed against the door once loud enough for me to hear, and while I stopped long enough to be worried I’d bruise the top of her head.
“Should I..”
“Keep fucking going.”
“You’re not..”
“Harder than that.”
She had a good point.
She came, screaming through fogged windows into the dark of the night.  She pushed me against the door behind me, sucked my orgasm from me, kept sucking, her hand between her legs, tasting herself on me, tasting me in her mouth.
When we were silent, so was everything.  It felt like it could be early morning or the next afternoon.  It felt like we could have slid into and down the river.  It wasn’t quite half an hour since I picked her up outside of the shitty club bar.
She pulled down the mirror on the way back into downtown.  Touched her hair twice, looked at the crumples of her dress.  “I look like I just got fucked.”
“Yeah, you do.”
“I love it.  Fuck those bitches.”
There was a moment.  A deep breath.
“We’re going to get caught.”

“People get caught in movies.  We’re going to have good fucking times with someone we like whenever we feel like it, and it’s going to feel amazing.”
She had a good point.
We kissed at the green light of a busy intersection before she hopped out to rejoin her group.
“See you soon.”
“Very soon.”
“Text me when you find them, so I know you’re safe.”
She never did, never would, never would be.  She’d call me in a week, asking if I wanted to go for a walk in the woods, or meet after work, or at work.  It would feel amazing.

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Wine Party

I don’t really know.

I think they meet in the lobby, sharing genuine affection in the severe comfort of the kind of place that has ‘the historic' before its proper name. Sophie would be the last to arrive, wearing one more accessory than anyone else in the group.  She would feel a tingling on the backs of her hands like when people are looking at you and you can’t see them. She’d identify the group (the only group here in the middle of a day without conference name tags) and introduce herself to warm smiles and fidgets. Carrie would get the room key while the other two led Sophie to the bar.

Sophie would be here to meet these women to do something spectacular and terrifying.  They would be trying their best to make it feel spontaneous, though the length of the email chain for the month prior would be evidence otherwise.

It would be nice if each ordered a different wine and sipped from each other’s glasses until a favorite was decided.  Carrie could arrive with the key, finish each of the glasses slowly and deliberately.  To be safe, they would order one more glass each and find a set of dark couches with decorative armrests.  They would drink their wine slowly, since the whole day and evening was theirs to do with as they pleased.  

All would agree, I think, that Maya's Malbec was the winner, perhaps because of the snow outside or the color of the twin sofas they shared.  Carrie would hand the room card to the bartender, "two bottles please, and four glasses.  We’ll carry them up with us."

I could try to subtly introduce all four women, but not find a reason to talk about Anna, who is the quietness and danger of Russian poetry, but with giggling (and Maya is horror fiction novels you and I have never heard of and Carrie is This American Life and Sophie is super-hero comics bought with adult paychecks and consumed in secret like chocolate too good to share).

I suppose, if we’re honest here, absolutely none of this is fiction, but it hasn’t happened yet.

They could head to the room, and the hallways would turn randomly, and there would be little sets of tables and chairs set in nooks as if someone would sit and read a book in the hallway of a hotel, even though they would look like a perfectly comfortable spot to do so.  Carrie would swipe the card, which would work on the third try, and they would walk in to see a bed that was too big for anyone, a tv that was too old to make sense, and ceilings too high to jump and touch, even when standing on the silly-large bed.

There would be a glass of whiskey and two ice cubes sitting on the side table, mostly gone.  The bathroom door would be open and there would be a towel on the floor.  There would also, I’m pretty sure, be a man who belonged to the towel and the whiskey.  He would be dressed in a dark suit with a dark tie all neat and smart, though his own coloring would be mostly light and his hair and smile would be somewhat scattered.  There would be a table large enough for four covered in a white tablecloth.  I’m not sure why.  “Hello,” he would say, “I was just getting ready for you.”

The ladies would sit.  He would pour wine into the glasses.  There would be a silence that I would want to describe as pregnant, but that seems like a gross word to use to describe silences.

“I love this part,” Anna would say, as she brought the glass to her lips.  That part would be completely real.

The man would stand behind Anna first, place his hands on her shoulders, push in firmly with his thumbs.

Anna would put the wine down.  Anna might never even finish the rest of that glass.  She would exhale like it had been, somehow, months since someone had simply rubbed her shoulders.

“The suit’s a nice touch,” this would be Sophie, who would have no trouble finishing this glass and the next.

“I thought it may be a bit much, but I have no idea how to dress sexy.”

“That works,” Carrie says, pointing in a wild line bottom to top at the suit.

“This works,”  Anna says, eyes closed, in words that sound in danger of falling apart on their way past her lips.

“It is an interesting fashion choice conundrum though,” this is Maya now, who is wearing black like she always does, and smiling like she always does, “figuring out what you wear to whatever you call this.”

“I think the point,” the man would say, “is that you can wear whatever you want.”

“Except pants.”  I bet Maya and Sophie would say this at the same time, and laugh, and it would be one of those things that now they were friends, just like that.

I suppose they’d talk like this through the first bottle and into the second.  Carrie may even call up for a third bottle just in case, but this time order something less dense and from France.  As they talked, the man would circle twice around, rubbing shoulders and necks and that spot behind the ears and then have fingers combing through hair.  He would talk less and less as the conversation got louder and louder.  He would often have his eyes closed and be focusing on the touch.

For a moment, maybe, or maybe more than that, maybe ten or twenty minutes worth of shoulder rubs and wine drinking, it would feel like maybe only that, that maybe that’s what the night would be, because who says no to a shoulder rub and wine?

So the man would step back, as if to signal.  “Is there anything else then?”  The man would ask.  He would try to sound like a waiter and look like a spy and do decent enough on both accounts if you were slightly drunk or playing along, and most everyone there would be mostly both.

“Me first.”  That would be Maya, who is less than good at waiting, and for whose reaction to nervousness has always been jumping in head first.  She would push her chair back from the table and pull her dress up to her waist.  The man would kneel in front of her, kiss her thigh as the conversation at the table continued around them.

It would be okay with Sophie, as you’d think it would be, to sit and watch at first.  She’d pull her skirt up to the middle of her thigh, bring her wine glass to her lips and sip.  She would watch the lips of Maya.

I bet Maya would be mid-sentence, probably something about this thing and how this other thing was a much better version of it, and stop, “it wasn’t bad for a movie adapta...”

Probably, then, the man would have moved on from the thigh.

Carrie would pick up the conversation from the table and pass it on, “have you seen anything good lately?”  No one had, but they could all talk about movies they had half-seen or heard about.  While the conversation continued, Sophie would keep her eyes on Maya’s lips, (“I had it on while I was checking email and it seemed ok, but not great...”) which stay silent and moving.  She could have been whispering “fuck” over and over (“... was supposed to be really good, I think it’s at the discount now”), but probably wouldn’t.  She could have been smiling but from deep enough that it just barely showed in the space between her teeth and lips andjustrightthen Sophie would hear the littlest moan escape in that space.  (“Sophie?  Sophie?  How about you?  Seen anything good?) Sophie would not hear the conversation around her (… well anyway, I think we should go see it...”).

I imagine, don’t you?, that Sophie’s hand would start to play along and up her thigh, maybe not seriously touching yet but willing and willing and please please can I be next?
Maybe Maya’s fingers would be dug into the tablecloth.  Maybe Maya’s lips are wide enough to suck the pleasure from the air, and Maya’s moans are load and regular enough to provide the white noise for Carrie and Anna, talking now about the wine again with sideways smiles to the orgasm across the table.

Probably, then, Sophie would start touching herself, but just a little and not enough to start the race but just enough to get to the line.

Carrie would probably be next, and the man would move from Maya to her as she pulled her skirt up.  Carrie would likely keep talking through, but with these hiccups of “ohthat’sgood” like, “I didn’t even know my car could do that holyshityeah, I just thought it was one of those buttons for, you know, whatever buttons are for but ohmygodthat’sgood I hit and then all the sudden...”

He would use his fingers on Carrie too, and Sophie would watch his arm move back and forth as he slid them in and out of her, just under jaw moving in a similar rhythm.  I bet Maya would recover sometime around then, mutter something about “so fucking good,” straighten her dress, and move the conversation towards Sophie.  Maya would ask about the tattoo on Sophie’s forearm, and show the tattoo on her right shoulder.  They would discuss a book and a movie and whether the book was better than the movie.  Anna would have seen or read neither, and so would watch Carrie closely as she got closer and closer.

Sophie would be touching herself then, just letting her fingertip feel wet and letting it slide and press gently and imagine what was next and what was after that and after that.

Except that Anna would be next, I think, and Anna would hold their hands, Carrie and Sophie’s hands.  Except that she would not just hold them but would wind her fingers through them and wind her fingers out and touch her fingers with all the sex in her body and when she came it would feel like fingers fucking fingers.

I don’t think there’d be a lot of talking while Anna had her turn.  Anna has this slender face and these little dimples in her cheeks that only come out when things like this are happening and Anna loves touching like it’s talking and loves orgasm like it’s living, and everyone, I think, would be giving Anna their full attention while she slid forward in her chair and bit her lip and hummed herself to orgasm.

So Anna would be leaning back, breathing heavy and releasing her grip on the hands of the other two.  But Anna, I bet, would be looking at Sophie.  Sophie’s hand would be between her legs and she would stop moving it, but keep it there, and Anna would lean into Sophie and kiss like it was Sophie who made her come.  Anna would, I think, hold Sophie with her palm on Sophie’s neck and her thumb across her jaw.

Sophie would be too immersed in the kiss and probably wouldn’t hear Carrie or Maya get up, but then they would be there, each kissing one side of Sophie’s neck, each with fingers moving down her chest and under her shirt.  So she would notice them then, would find it to be a natural feeling, to have three people kissing her at once.  It would feel like one person kissing her, really, except there would be two more also kissing her, which would seem like an obvious thing, but would feel like a revelation.

I guess they would stand Sophie up, and Anna would continue kissing with her, and Carrie and Maya would continue to kiss on her.  There would be hands on her legs and back and neck and chest.

The man would stand up, and it would be me.  I bet that doesn’t surprise you even a little bit.

I would watch as the ladies lead Sophie to the bed, her knees bent over the side.  Anna would grab my whiskey glass from the nightstand, fill it again, and place it near the chair by the window.  And so I would sit.  She would hold the last half of her glass of wine and sit across my lap.  And so we would kiss.  And so we would watch.

Sophie would put her hands up over her head, I bet, would lay herself out as Carrie and Maya took off her clothes, and then their clothes.  They could probably kiss her neck again, and down her chest and over her breasts.  Carrie, I think, would follow Maya’s lips with hers, meet their tongues over Sophie’s nipples.  Their hands would find her thighs, would pull her legs apart.

My hands would be behaving very similarly on Anna’s legs.  Of course we would still be kissing.  Of course my fingertips would find her clit, find it gently, touch it lightly like they were just watching.

Carrie, I’m sure, would be the first to drop to the floor, the first to kneel in front of Sophie on the bed.  She would touch with her fingers, then taste her fingers, then touch with her lips and taste some more.  She would moan into Sophie as she pressed her tongue against and inside her.  And Maya would seem torn, to join Carrie or not, but Sophie would move a hand to Maya’s waist, would guide her to kneel, guide Maya’s legs to either side of the pillow.

And so Sophie would hold Maya’s breasts, a nipple between each finger and thumb, as Maya lowered her pussy onto Sophie’s lips.  And so Carrie would taste the wetness of Sophie tasting someone else.  I think.

And I think Anna would have my clothes off now, and all the rest of her clothes too, because there’s a point when you’re watching three naked people on a bed that it feels pretty silly to be wearing pants.  Also because Anna likes feeling her hand wrapped around a hard erection.  I enjoy the feeling of my erection wrapped in a hand.  We’d likely both take a sip of our drinks then.

I hope that Maya would touch herself while straddling Sophie’s face.  I hope she would reach between her legs and play her fingers over Sophie’s tongue.  I hope they would work together to bring Maya to orgasm again.  I hope Sophie would like to watch up Maya’s stomach and breasts at Maya’s lips while she comes.  I hope Sophie would think it looks as sexy as I do.

In fact, I’m pretty sure that she would.  I’m pretty sure Sophie would hold Maya there, even after her orgasm, so Sophie could keep kissing and sucking Maya while Carrie was doing the same to her.

There’s every chance at that moment I’d be painfully avoiding orgasm.  Anna is good, so very good, with her hands, and there’s that place where all the sudden you’re far enough along that you just can’t tell someone to stop and you want to orgasm so badly, and there’s that place where you’re in the midst of a monumentally unrealistic fantasy which is actually completely realistic except the affording of the hotel room and wine, and you’re so close to a moment that will mirror almost exactly the moment you’ve been fantasizing about since you understood what all of everyone’s parts could do.  It’s a bad moment to come on your stomach across the room from three women who haven’t yet touched you.

So I would make Anna stand up, most likely, and we would stand and I would stand behind her and we would face the bed and watch.  I would reach around her waist and touch her while we watched.  I would kiss her neck and just under her ear.  I would hold her neck with my hand and push her body against mine.  She would, I would think, orgasm or be very close, by the time Sophie was bending her head back with eyes locked on Maya, and by the time that Carrie was pushing two fingers up and sucking a clit between her teeth and by the time that Sophie’s orgasm would fill the room and half the city.

Sophie would have, I’m nearly certain here, the kind of orgasm that would be in danger of breaking the rest of the evening, the kind of orgasm that would announce: Tonight’s fun is over, no one’s topping that this week, so let’s head on home.  The same kind of orgasm that can also inspire the thought: Well shit.  Let’s do that some more.

So there would be more, I’m sure, since we’d have the room for the night and more wine and no reason to get dressed.  There would be laying around and long massages, and maybe even some sleep, but also a sort of energy that would build until there were two of us kissing and more and then all us, again, Let’s do that some more.

But maybe not before Anna would stand behind me, call the other girls over to help.  Maybe before we moved on they would kneel in front of me, Carrie and Maya and Sophie.  Maybe they would smile a lot and tease a little.  Maybe with hands and with mouths they would show off, a little, for each other.

Maybe there would be Maya and Sophie, in front of me and turned to each other, lips together and hands between each other’s legs.  Maybe Carrie would be watching them from the side while she jacked me off, and maybe Anna would be wrapped around me, looking down over my shoulder, and maybe she would lean in and whisper, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “cum on their kiss.”

I could happen, it really could.  In fact it almost surely almost will.