43. Max

It seems mine is the only brain in the room capable of adulting.

Dex slumps forward, head drooping, as soon as I release his shoulder from my teeth and his arms from my grip. Darcy's lying on the bed, trying to catch her breath, looking for all the world like stars are spinning around her head like a cartoon halo.

That's what I call a thoroughly fucking successful threesome.

I tuck my dick up hastily, stuffing my shirt tails back into my trousers but leaving my belt undone, and walk around to the head of the bed so I can untie Darcy's wrists. I release one hand and rub it between mine, but it's nice and warm, which is excellent. A knee on the bed and a bit of a stretch and I've got the second one loosened, too.

She raises them in the air and instantly makes a grab for the back of Dex's head.

‘That was fucking unbelievable,' he murmurs to her, his voice soft and adoring and still slurred with the aftermath of his violent orgasm. She whispers something laughingly back, and he crouches as far as he can over her without getting the front of his shirt covered in my cum, kissing her with what a less cynical man would call ardour.

‘Wait there—I'll get a cloth,' I order them both, striding through to the ensuite bathroom and cranking up the mixer above the washbasin.

I was definitely Billy No Mates in that scenario just then, but that was the idea. Tonight was about getting Dex to sample Darcy's delights, getting him so hooked on her that he won't be capable of declining next time we offer.

And, while it may also have been about acclimatising him to my presence, to having the three of us fool around together, it most certainly wasn't about making a move on him, or suggesting he should succumb to me in more ways than simply fulfilling my instructions for how he should touch Darcy, or doing the remotest thing that might scare him off.

All of which means there is no room in the slightest for the pleasing effect the lingering taste of laundered cotton in my mouth has on me.

And there certainly wasn't any room for that bite.

I wonder what he thought of it. I wonder if he's telling himself it was uncalled-for. Unfair. Unwanted. I wonder if he has any clue, any clue at all, how much pent-up desire, how much utter savagery, I left on the table.

I wonder if he has the slightest inkling of how lightly he got away, because that bite was a fucking drop in the endless ocean of the things I wanted to do to him in there. The things I wanted to show him. Teach him.

Make him fucking feel.

He gives me nothing. He gives me so little, in fact, that I'm absolutely certain his disinterest is studied. Most of the group sex I've had has yielded a certain level of camaraderie, if you like, among the men involved, even if there's no guy-on-guy action. I know he's uptight and conservative, but the only encouraging reactions he had to me were the involuntary ones.

The way my teeth sinking into his flesh had him hurtling towards an even stronger orgasm.

The looks he gave my cock, especially when I was coming over Darcy. I didn't miss them, and I didn't miss their meaning. Disbelief. Longing. But more like a longing he didn't permit himself.

As if it was a weakness he was ashamed of.

I would bet every pound I have that his reaction to me is far more than that of a first-timer in a threesome. Because, even if he's a spineless little liar, those beautiful tiger eyes of his don't lie.

They don't lie at all.

I rinse the washcloth under the hot water and wring it out more viciously than necessary before composing myself, grabbing a dry hand towel too and returning to the lovebirds. A man less kinky and less open-minded than me would have a fit if he saw his girlfriend like this with another man.

I'm less jealous than wistful, because Dex is a closed book with me, and an open one with her, and I wonder, I just wonder, how it feels to be Darcy in this moment. To have him still inside you, to have come together, to have him gaze at you through his lashes like that, as if your mere existence and ability to deliver a pretty orgasm is worthy of great wonderment.

And yet I can't look away, because Dex's orgasm wasn't endgame for me tonight—it was merely a turning point. Because where he was first suspicious and conflicted, and then needy and hungry, he's now relaxed and smiling and unguarded, and an unguarded Dex is a specimen I wish to study, to feast on, very much indeed.

‘Here,' I say, sitting down on the bed. Dex raises himself up and eases out of Darcy as I prepare to clean my cum off her tits. I don't miss the flash of his cock as he gets up, almost entirely flaccid now but still long, still breathtaking, as is the lean jut of his jaw and the softness of the dark hair falling over his forehead.

He turns away from us to deal with the condom, but not before a tug of yearning pulls deep inside me at the thought of getting him to plaster his palms to a wall as I stroke that cock, tug at his balls, my body pressed against his, the hair on his calves tickling my shins and my dick teasing the enticing valley of his crack, his voice growing thin and reedy as he begs me and begs me and fucking begs me for release, and?—

‘You're such a good girl,' I tell Darcy, because she's all that matters now. ‘You did so very well.'

This evening was for her, and this next part of the proceedings is for her, because she must be exhausted after her performances, both in The Playroom and on this bed.

So my queer, delicious fantasies about this exquisite, confused man can take a running jump for now.

She smiles dreamily at me, and I enjoy a moment of quiet, uncomplicated joy that we made her so happy this evening.

‘Really?' she asks.

‘Really.' I place the washcloth gently on her chest and begin to wipe my fluids off her. ‘You submitted so beautifully for both of us. You let Dex fuck you so hard. Was it everything you wanted?'

She laughs a little at that, just as Dex turns around, buckling his belt, and comes to sit on the other side of the bed. ‘It was a million times better than I could have hoped for,' she says, looking from me to him and back again, her hips twisting, inner thighs sliding against each other. ‘It was the most amazing experience of my life.'

‘Good,' I say. I glance over at Dex to find him rubbing at the exact place on his shoulder where I bit him. Our eyes meet, and he presses his mouth into a grim line before turning his attention back to Darcy.

‘You're so amazing,' he tells her, stooping to kiss her on the mouth. When he straightens up, he keeps his hand in her hair, smoothing it away from her face. ‘You blow my mind.'

She smiles happily and shimmies a little on the bed. ‘Oh my God. I could die happy. You two are amazing. Is it wrong that I just want to lie here all night and let you praise me?'

I chuckle as I wipe the last spatters of my cum from her stomach. ‘I'll pander to your praise kink all night long, sweetheart. But we need to get you in the shower and clean you up properly.'

At my mention of we, Dex jerks his head up harshly. I respond in kind with an arched eyebrow. Don't even think about letting her down now, my expression says.

Darcy reaches up to touch the hand stroking her hair. ‘It's okay if you don't want to.'

He hesitates, and I clutch the washcloth harder. I tell myself it's anger that he might bail on her, that he might have the fucking cheek to walk away without giving her the full breadth of aftercare she needs and deserves after she let him inside her. After she took a momentous step and let two men loose on her body.

But I suspect it's less anger than the singular agony of being on tenterhooks. I also suspect the discomfort of being an eighteenth-century piece of fabric stretched taut on its tenter by actual tenterhooks would be less disagreeable than this trepidation.

Because in five minutes time, I will either be naked under a torrent of hot water with Dexter Scott, or I won't.