How It All Started...cont'd

Jacko stood there, silhouetted by the hall light. He was naked, his body all taut muscle and tanned skin from a life outdoors. His cock was hard, jutting out from a thatch of dark hair, and it was… impressive. Thick and veined. A working man’s tool. The sight of him, standing there ready to take my wife, sent a jolt of pure lightning through me.

I nodded him in. He stepped into the room, his eyes wide as he took in the sight of Elara - my proper, timid wife - spread out and blindfolded, her skin flushed, her chest heaving. He looked from her to me, a question in his eyes. I just grinned, a wild, possessed thing, and waved him forward.

The bed dipped as he climbed on. Elara gasped, her head turning. “Tom?”

“Shhh, darlin’,” I murmured, moving to the side of the bed, grabbing my phone, my hands shaking. “Just me.”

It was a half-truth that hung in the air. Jacko positioned himself between her legs, his hands gripping the sheets by her shoulders. He lowered his hips, and I watched, my breath caught in my throat, as he rubbed the head of his cock through her slickness, coating himself in her. She gasped again, a high, needy sound, her hips lifting, seeking more.

“Please, Tom… now…”

With a groan that seemed ripped from the earth itself, Jacko pushed forward, burying himself inside her in one smooth, devastating stroke.

Elara’s whole body went rigid. A choked sound escaped her lips. Her head thrashed on the pillow.

“Wha - ? Tom?!”

Her eyes flew open beneath the blindfold, but she could not see. She could only feel. Feel the unfamiliar weight on her. The different rhythm. The thicker, harder stretch as Jacko began to move, setting a deep, relentless pace that was nothing like mine.

“Oh God… no…” she moaned, but her body, traitorously, was responding. Her legs, still bound, wrapped as best they could around his waist, pulling him deeper. “It’s… it’s not… Oh God!”

Her denial melted into a long, shuddering wail as her orgasm ripped through her. It was violent, overwhelming, a seizure of pleasure that made her back bow off the bed. Jacko grunted, pounding into her through the convulsions, his own control snapping. With a ragged cry, he pulled out of her, and ropes of hot come striped across her stomach, her breasts, a shocking, primal claim.

The room fell silent except for our ragged breathing and the first fat drops of rain hitting the iron roof. I moved then, my own need an unbearable pressure. I fumbled with her blindfold, pulling it away.

Her eyes were wide, dazed, pupils blown black with shock and residual ecstasy. They focused on me, then flicked to the man still crouched over her.

“Jacko?” The name was a whisper, a prayer, a curse.

He looked down at her, his expression a mix of awe and fear. “Elara… I’m… Tom said…”

I climbed onto the bed, my own arousal urgent. I positioned myself at her well-used, dripping centre. Her eyes met mine, and in them, I saw the shock receding, replaced by a dawning, terrifying hunger. I pushed inside her, and she was so open, so impossibly wet and loose from Jacko’s taking. The feeling was unimaginable.

I leaned down, kissing her deeply, tasting the salt of her sweat and the ghost of the storm. “I love you,” I breathed into her mouth. “I love you so much.”

She kissed me back with a frantic, desperate energy, her hips meeting my thrusts. “You bastard,” she gasped against my lips, but there was no anger, only a wild, stunned wonder. “You beautiful, crazy bastard.”

Jacko, recovering, found my phone and started taking pictures, the flash illuminating our tangled bodies like the lightning outside. I saw him stroking himself, already hard again.

Elara’s second orgasm built quickly, fuelled by adrenaline and a shattered taboo. She came with a scream that was swallowed by a clap of thunder, her nails digging into my back. Her climax triggered my own, and I emptied myself into her with a force that left me dizzy.

I collapsed beside her, fumbling to release her cuffs. The second her hands were free, they flew to my face, then out, grasping for Jacko, pulling him down into our heap of trembling, sweat-soaked limbs.

She started to cry then, deep, shaking sobs that worried me for a moment. But she clutched us both tighter. “Don’t let go,” she whispered. “Please.”

We did not. We held her as the storm raged outside, a cocoon of three. Her tears eventually subsided, replaced by a curious, exploring touch. A hand on Jacko’s shoulder. My fingers tracing the come drying on her stomach. His thumb wiping a tear from her cheek.

The night stretched on, the storm passing to leave a clean, wet silence. We did not sleep. We explored. We talked in hushed tones. We learned the map of each other’s bodies under the slow spin of the ceiling fan. Jacko took her again, slower this time, with a reverence that made my heart ache, and I watched, my hand on her cheek, her eyes locked on mine. Later, she knelt between us, taking me into her mouth while she guided Jacko back inside her, a move so bold it stole my breath.

The cane fields were glowing with the first grey light of dawn when we finally slept, the three of us tangled together in the wreckage of our bed, our old life washed away by the storm.

Jacko left on his circuit a few days later. We never spoke of it directly again. But sometimes, when a shearing ute kicks up dust on the road, Elara’s eyes will flick to the window, and a slow, secret smile will touch her lips. And that night, in our bed, she will whisper for me to tie her up, and she will ask me, her voice husky and low, to tell her the story again. The true story. Our story. And as I whisper it against her skin, the heat between us is as charged and potent as a summer storm over the bush.