Third Person

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Gary didn’t like me standing too close behind him when I was jacking him off onto my wife Sharon’s mystery baby bump. So, if I happened to be naked, following my weekly whipping for instance, I would pull my panties back up so that there was no chance my bare, bobbing penis might brush against Gary’s ass during the three-way melee. Although…as orgasm approached the very vocal Gary tended to lose track of what was happening behind him freeing me up to move ever closer to the point where my pantied cock might not only be brushing against his right cheek but pressed firmly against it. A slightly bent over Gary being too busy disturbing the neighbors to notice the silky feel at his rear. Unless, of course, that was part of what contributed to the volume of his ejaculations, both seminal and vocal.

“Hey! Knock it off over there you three!” It was more than a little embarrassing. Not only were our unidentified neighbors victims of Gary’s passion-cries but they’d been able, rather like wine connoisseurs ferreting out distinct flavors in a glass of Bordeaux, to identify our number by voice variations (and shouts). Assuming, that is, there wasn’t a spyhole somewhere in the wall I didn’t know about.

Being a typical male, married, two kids…But besides that, being a typical male and losing all interest in the sport of sex the minute his powerful goal had scored, he usually—immediately—left the bedroom muttering something about pantywaists and went to our kitchen to grab a beer and wipe his dick off on (probably) one of our striped dish towels. Though not necessarily in that order. Leaving me, panty still bulging at the front, to sink to my stockinged knees and go to work cleaning off Sharon’s ever-swelling belly with my lips and tongue. Pursing my mouth like a parrot fish to suction in the thicker, clotty streaks of white, while my eager tongue lapped up the thinner, more transparent ones. Gary’s sweet, fragrant semen feeling positively cool against the taut flesh mini-oven of Sharon’s belly. It was like kissing tanning skin at the beach on summer’s hottest day. Had my lips been a thermometer I’m sure—certain of it—they would have registered 120 degrees.

“Having fun you two?” Gary would always say reentering the bedroom as I finished up. “I know he is.” Selfish, Gary had returned with exactly one can of cold beer—for himself. A smiling Sharon, welcoming her naked, longtime lover back to bed, never seemed to see it this way. As I staggered to my feet, jaw not just sore from the recent sperm bank collection but from performing dry fellatio on Gary earlier, while my wife lounged nearby fingering herself, Sharon would say:

“Quick! It tickles, Dick! Go get a wet towel! Then bring me a glass of wine sweetie, OK? Thank you.”

Then Sharon went about necking with Gary who, presumably, tasted like light beer. When I returned, brimming glass in hand, I slid over onto whatever meager space was left on the side of my wife opposite her lover as—briefly—Sharon’s lippy attention turned to me. We kissed—her tongue probing my mouth. “You taste like cum,” she announced, with a giggle.

You taste like second-hand beer, I wanted to say. While my wife did not enjoy sucking cock, she did relish the eventual fruits of such labor.

“Gee I wonder why?” Gary’s comment betraying a note bitterness. Or disgust, one.

“Don’t be mean.”

“I’m just saying…,” he said. “You’re the one married a…” He started to use one derogatory term before deciding to substitute another only slightly less politically incorrect: “…cocksucker.”

“He didn’t suck your cock he—”

“The hell he didn’t.”

Sharon recomposed herself, hands falling to belly swell. “He didn’t suck it out of your cock he licked it off my belly is what I was trying to say.”

“Speaking of which…,” pointing, one Saturday afternoon about three months in. “When are you going to let us in on the secret? Assuming you haven’t already told him.”

(That’s right. Just keep talking izmir escort bayan about me as if I wasn’t a body-width away from you, let alone in the same room.)

“I haven’t, have I Dick? And…,” chin and eyebrows raised, “…I just may…never.”

“Come again? I have a right to know, Sharon.”

“Why’re you acting so bitchy today?”

“I’m not—”

“And what do you care anyway, Gary?” my wife’s naked body rocking itself deeper into headboard’s pillows. “Dick and I are going to raise our son. We’re going to be the child’s—”

“How do you know it’s a boy?”

“Cause I know, OK? He has a penis. OK?”

“Thanks for telling me.”

“I just did. Everything in due time as my mother likes to say. Have you ever heard that expression, Gary?”

“No,” her sullen loved claimed.

“Well now you have.”

(I just loved it when the two lovers quarreled. Just loved it when Gary served as the marriage surrogate. I sipped my chardonnay and tried to hide a smile…)

“Dick and I are going to raise the child, regardless, I was attempting to say. It’s going to be our baby and Dick’s going to be the daddy. Simple as that.”

Gary had leaned forward. He was not only glaring at me but pointing. “Is he the father?”

“It’s…possible,” Sharon said with an unconvincing body wiggle that sank her deeper between us.

“Is it possible?” Gary was talking to me. At last! I shrugged.

“I guess,” I replied.

“When’s the last time you did it with her? Honestly?”

I looked open-mouthed at my wife. Who was biting her lip. No help.

“Cause…,” Gary filled. “…the first time we did it…No! Forget sex the first time we went out for drinks together you told me hubby was, like, persona non grata in your bed anymore. And that you needed a real man in your life a man who could satisfy you in bed and—”

“That’s enough,” hand raised like a traffic cop’s. “Both of you.”

“What did I say?” I asked.

“We’re all in this together. We’re a threesome.”

“All I asked was…It’s a simple question: When’s the last time you had sex with her?”

“Her?” the third-person shoe now on the other foot.

“You. You know what I mean.”

“We started up again, didn’t we darling?”

The prosecutor: “When?”

“About…four months ago was it honey?”

I closed my mouth in response. Speechless. Gary had crashed back against the headboard, laughing. Derisively. “Give me a break, Sharon…!”

“It’s true! Ask Dick. Dick?”

“He’s a dick all right…,” Gary muttered, receiving a lover’s swat for his trouble. “Ow! I’ll ask him something…Hey pantyfuck. Will you get me another beer? Pretty please? And another white wine for the little liar?”

Another swat—this one accompanied by bubbling laughter, however. “I’m not lying and don’t speak to my husband like that.”

“Oh. Only you can ask him—her—to fetch drinks and towels and shit for you?”

Trying gamely this time to suppress flirty laughter: “That’s right. Honey, would you please? Do you mind?” empty glass held out to my sigh. “Thank you.”

And I left the bedroom to sounds of Sharon, her left hand having fallen to her lover’s now only half-limp cock, saying: “He’s going to make such a wonderful daddy…”

When I returned, passing wine glass and beer can to greedy hands, only one of Sharon’s free at the moment, Gary was rather indelicately describing how when his wife reached a certain point in “their” pregnancy…they’d switched to anal.

“No way,” Sharon said, left hand abandoning cock for the belly swell it had produced. “I’ve told you this before, Gary. I hate anal. Ask Dick.”

Gary grinned at me. “Is it true? Dick.”

I looked away from him. Stared at the opposite wall as Sharon verbalized my thoughts, some of them: “You should thank Dick. You should be grateful.”

“For fucking what?”

“For him being so willing to share me with you.”

“He has a choice?”

Sharon escort izmir sipped jug chardonnay in answer.

“You’re not even willing to give it a try, baby? Anal?”

“Not a chance.”

Not the answer her easily perturbable lover wanted. Sharon had told me once. More than once: “He’s OK for a couple of hours but…”

“And how the hell could your contraceptives fail? I don’t get it.”

“Things happen, Gary.”

“Another of your mother’s sayings?”

“Fuck you.”

“I wish…” He drank. Sharon expelled a short, hot sigh:

“You have to get this crap on the black market these days, Gary. Who knows how efficacious the pills are.”

“Effi what?”

“Dick did the best he could. The shit’s expensive. And it’s risky. You could go to jail for it.”

Gary, leaning forward again: “Wait a minute. He’s been buying your contraceptives for you?”

Sharon nodded. “Our wonderful leaders, in their wisdom, have outlawed them. Remember? That—and abortion. So…”

Gary was shaking his head. “I don’t believe this. You could’ve told me.”

“Told you what? Like I say, Gary, it’s not your—”

“I would’ve worn a rubber!”

“Ha! Yeah, right…”

“They’re not illegal…”

“The first few times we got together I asked you to put a condom on and what did you say?”


“That you hated those things, remember?”

“I offered to pull out…”

Another blurt of incredulity: “That’ll be the day! When have you ever pulled out?”

Gary, staring down at himself, also incredulous, changed the subject. Abruptly. “I’m hard again,” he mused.

“You’re incorrigible. How could talking about me getting accidentally pregnant make a man hard?”

“That’s not it,” Gary claimed, leaning over smiling into my wife. And by extension, me. “I was thinking about your sweet little asshole. Parting your cheeks, pushing my cock in an inch at a time. Gently. Shooting my load deep in you…”

“No. N-O. Forget it.”

I did a doubletake. Gary’s blue eyes—mine were hazel, that could be a problem down the road—and smarmy smile had been transferred to me. On me, roamingly. “Any girls here like anal?”

Sharon blinked. Her brown eyes, her cute nose—no wonder men were so fond of her—only inches from the leaning Gary’s right cheek. “Who’re you talking to?” sounding startled.

“Anybody who’ll listen. Anybody with a willing asshole.” Gary pulled back, looked my wife in the eyes. “That rules you out, hon. So I guess we’re down to one option.”

“You are kidding me, right?”

“Sort of,” Gary admitted, back slamming against the headboard again.

“You just hit on my husband? Suggested he…?”

Gary shrugged. “He’s the one sitting here in panties and thigh-highs. Isn’t that what faggots do? Spread their cheeks for—”

“I don’t like that word, Gary. And he’s not a faggot.”

“OK, sissies then. Men who dress in women’s underwear. Isn’t that what they do? Bottom for—”

“You’re proposing—lemme get this straight. You’re proposing…I don’t even want to go there. With my husband?”

Another shrug. “He sucks my cock doesn’t he? You don’t complain about that.”

“That’s different,” Sharon declared, arms tightly folded now between swollen breast and baby bump. “That’s part of our…”

“Our what?”

“You don’t even know if he’s willing.”

“Are you willing, pantygirl?” leaning my way again. “You have to admit he looks pretty damn sexy in those—”

“Oh my god!” And I never realized a pregnant woman could move so fast before. Sharon, standing now, hands on shapely hips, addressed the two of us from the foot of the bed. “You’re really serious about this aren’t you?”

“I…,” I attempted to protest, feebly, feeling like an almost innocent bystander to this sexual car wreck.

“I gave you the option, baby,” cock rising thick and straight and hard from its bed dark-brown hair. At least we had hair-color in common.

“Out! Get out!” izmir escort pointing doorward. “Both of you two faggots! Get out! Now! Leave me alone! I’m getting dressed and…getting the hell out of here before you…” Sharon, red-faced, shivered, hotly. “Ohhhh…you two!


Just as Gary’s cock was a mouthful, it was likewise an assful. It wasn’t the first time I’d ever bottomed for a guy but it had been a while: first in college and then in that lonely nether-period before I met Sharon and was added to the list of guys she was either dating or having regular sex with. She never hid the fact that she maintained relations with lots of men or that it took, in her words, “a lot to satisfy me.”

A thing she reminded me about after the first time we had sex; and again when I asked her to marry me; and yet again, penultimately, the night before the night before our wedding. Her bachelorette party, the next day, having been spent, divided I should say, between a couple of her oldest flames. Gary wasn’t in the picture yet—and wouldn’t be for several fateful years to come.

Now he fucked me with a surprising rhythm of gentleness. He was almost tender, my new lover (if you don’t count preparatory blowjobs). After our bedroom eviction we’d stood in apartment kitchen sipping our drinks while Sharon, first in underwear, then fully dressed, then undressed again, then emerging wearing an even shorter skirt…stormed around the apartment gathering shit up, then tossing it, swearing all the while…before finally bolting with the parting words: “You two faggots deserve each other!”

And it was true, somewhat. For I was standing there in the cramped kitchen with a wineglass in one hand and Gary’s revived cock in the other. He was smiling. Whether at Sharon’s antics or the pleasure my hand was giving him I can’t say.

Now back on the bed it was first Gary’s body that was the engine of our pleasure. Low revs, just cruising along, getting nowhere. But as delirious time went on Gary changed gears, grasped my hips, kept his erect-backed body still, or mostly still, and turned my elbows-and-knees body into the engine. Oh! This was better. The pleasures this induced being even more heightened, more surreal. Oh! (What would the neighbors think? Twin male moans…) We were both sweating now and my cheeks were making a slapping sound slamming against Gary’s abdomen, before being pushed away to the end-length of his incredible rod. Oh!

“I wish you were wearing…a garter belt. And bra. That would be…hot,” he said at one point.

“I…have those,” I managed to get out. “Sharon does…anyway.”

“Next…time. Then.”

“O…K. Oh!” (The neighbors!)

The only other chink in my surrender to submissive, girly pleasure, in my obliviousness to all else, being: Sharon. A haunting premonition that my wife, still seeing red, would return on some premature pretext and find Gary and me, well, going at it. Doggy-style. In the middle of…

“…my bed!” she declared, premonition come true, purse flying but missing us, from the doorway. “Look at you two! My husband and my own…I just had to see it with my own two eyes! Had to come back! Look at you, Mark! Gary I mean. Don’t think you’re ever gonna stick that gay thing in me again! It’s over between us! Thanks for stealing my boyfriend, Dick. You asshole! Where’s my purse? I’m going shopping. I’m really leaving this time. I am. Look at you two. The least you could do is pull your dick out of his ass when I’m talking to you, Gary. Christ! The least you could do is stop fucking for a minute! Well…

“I guess I’ll be going then. Obvious you don’t need me anymore, Gary. I’m leaving now. Goodbye. Hope you’re having fun. Without me. This is how I’m supposed to spend my Saturdays from now on? Out shopping for maternity clothing so you two can…?”

Gary looked around, our bodies connected but motionless. He smiled at Sharon who still—still—persisted in the doorway, upsidedown purse pressed against her diving neckline and push-up bra cleavage, painted mouth slightly ajar. Baby bump below.

Gary smiled at my wife before resuming his motion and said, reassuringly, “It’ll just be for the next six or seven months, babe.”

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