The plot: Danielle has a thing for watching men have sex together. On her birthday she lures her boyfriend Mike - who is straight and just a bit naive about the sort of things his girlfriend is in to - back to the flat she shares with her tattooed gay friend Trent...
Mike tries to disguise the disappointed downturn of his mouth and sits back on the sofa while I pour bourbon into three glasses. Trent parks himself in the armchair facing us and sets his tin of rolling tobacco out on the low table, his attention focused on skinning up the first of a series of stingily thin cigarettes. I pass a full glass in his direction and he nods.
‛Come on, love,’ he says under his breath. ‛Let’s go.’
I slide sideways off his lap onto the cushion, one fishnet thigh still draped over him, and look over my shoulder at Trent, who is drawing with satisfaction the first lungfuls of tobacco. ‛Mike’s after a blow job.’
‛On your birthday?’ His brow puckers. ‛Shouldn’t it be your turn?’
Mike seems dazed by the unexpected interruption to events, but he’s adaptable. He swallows hard.
‛Oh, I like sucking him off. He’s got a lovely cock.’ I squeeze the member in question, finding it rock solid still. ‛I could suck it all night.’
‛Or at least until you get bored.’ The quirk of Trent’s lips is patronising.
‛Hey, you: I’m really good at it!’
‛Yeah, right.’ His tone is unmistakably derisive.
‛She could wake the dead,’ says Mike in a hoarse voice, and I feel my heart warm: he’s coming to my defence. But this time Trent actually snorts.
‛What?’ demands Mike.
‛Women don’t give proper head. They don’t know what they’re doing with a dick: it stands to reason. You want a really great blow job, you need a man.’
‛Like you know what women can do, mate?’
‛I’ve given it a couple of tries, a few years back.’
‛But not with Dani.’ Mike is pugnacious.
‛Then you don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Trent exhales a long cloud of smoke, his eyes narrowing wickedly. ‛Show me then.’
His eyes flick to me, glinting. ‛Show me. Reckon you can eat his meat good enough to make me eat my words?’
I straighten my back, thrusting my tits and my lower lip out. ‛Hell yeah.’
Mike grins, not quite certain where all this came from but appreciating the novelty. He’s sort of aware that this is crossing a boundary he’s never previously approached, but he’s a bit punch-drunk from the sensory overload at the club and he’s stand-up horny from my teasing, and the caresses I’m still lavishing on his shaft are stopping him thinking clearly. He even helps by uncinching his belt as I set my glass aside. ‛She’s going to make your eyes water, mate,’ he promises. He’s being possessive; he thinks it’s us as a couple against the gay bloke.
Poor unimaginative Mike.
His cock is straining the seams of his fly as I get started and the teeth part with a staccato purr. Out pops Mike’s cock, hot and eager and flushed dark, his foreskin already being shouldered aside by his swelling glans. God, I love the way cocks stand up like that, so uncompromising and unambiguous. There’s nothing half-hearted about an erection. Nothing that says ‛Well, I’m not really bothered but...’ It’s a demand made physically incarnate.
I know Mike. I know all his little tells – the catch in his breath, the sudden surge of sweat to the skin of his crotch, the ooze of clear lube from the slit of his cock – well enough to be sure that he’s reached the Zone, that he’s no longer conscious of anything but the need to orgasm. That’s when I stop, lifting my open lips from his cock, washing its crown only in my hot wet breath. It twitches with frustration.
‛Not bad,’ says Trent softly. ‛Want something to compare it to?’
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P.S: you can see more (a lot more!) of my muse for Trent if you type "Logan McCree" into your search-engine, with the content filter switched off.