The first time we meet I smile coyly. . . Does he know I keep my strap ons in the drawer below the one were I keep my suspenders and stockings? I find myself wondering, what he would  look like on his knees in front of me, my fattest cock stuffed deep in his arse his beautiful eyes watering, gazing back at me through long lashes. I smile again and open my legs slightly before I get up, just to see where his eyes go.

I come back, watching him, watching me.  I sit down next to you, kiss you below your ear, my eyes on him and whisper, 'fresh meat?'  You nod.

He wears his innocence like a scarf, I get wet imagining you tying him up with it. 

As you tower over him, he tells you to rub his chest with your stubble.  Your nails scratch him, leaving marks that disappear as if they were made in water.  We stroke him, spank him, lavish him in attention and then we fuck him. 

He lays between us sleeping, we all hug. I felt closer to you than I ever have before. 

You said this is how you thought it should be, but when you cooked him breakfast and kissed him on the lips I knew you'd never done it this way before.  Despite myself I envied that tenderness, that you wore like a brand new shirt.

He asks you if he's leaving a big empty space. You nod and there is some laughter, that we wash in. 

You know I miss him. I know you do, too. So funny how we became a thing, the three of us. Yet all things change. Now, there are only four hands, not six, two mouths, not three.

Still, I want this, now, I want the hair on your head and your sandpaper face. You know this is how I like to be touched, through the split in my skirt, roughly, without the tenderness that you reserve for our next meal.