Ambush

Desire can be intense, overwhelming, exhausting, ridiculous, and joyful all at the same time.

Authors Note: Also… I wanted to write something funny.

I’m just a senior analyst at the college. Sterling University to be exact. Are we losing less money than we are making? That’s all I do.

Am I losing more cum than I’m making is really the only question I should be asking at this point.

The cursor hasn’t moved in minutes.

I know because the meeting notes I was supposed to finish end mid-sentence — Q3 projections indicate a strong —. Every muscle below my waist is staging a protest. My lower back has opinions. My thighs filed formal complaints somewhere around 2 a.m., right around the time Lexi went for a fourth and I was doing desperate math about whether I could make it to the bathroom to drink straight from the tap. I don’t know if my cock even has more skin on it. Fuck.

My phone lights up.

Lexi: thinking about last night

I pick it up. Put it down. Pick it back up.

Lexi: specifically your fingers. the second time. god i got so wet just thinking about the way you curled them inside my pussy

Jamie from accounting walks past with his coffee mug and I tilt the screen toward my chest as if he could see in the 3.2 seconds he takes to walk past me.

Me: I’m at work

Lexi: and?

Lexi: i’m in our bed. still wearing your shirt. nothing under it.

Lexi: touching myself right now thinking about how you fucked me

I push back from my desk. Walk to the window, put two fingers to the bridge of my nose, stare at the parking lot like it has the answers for me.

The issue isn’t desire. My body is doing its predictable thing right now, inconveniently, despite being held together with ibuprofen and the memory of that ice pack she handed me at midnight with a grin on her face. You earned this, she’d said.

The issue is the accounting.

Three nights in a row, two-plus hours each. Tuesday she pulled me on top of her before I’d even set down my water glass. Last week — I don’t think about last week. Specifically the part where Dani was there too, and I gave them everything I had for two straight hours and then some, and then woke up the next morning to Lexi’s hand sliding down my stomach towards my sore cock and her voice in my ear: round two?

I love this woman. I love her because she wants it like that. But somewhere between loving her and trying to walk normally at the office, I’ve lost track of how to say that I need one night — just one — where I’m not the one running the whole machine from start to finish.

Also, fuck you. Reader. I know what you’re going to say. My steak is too buttery and my lobster is too juicy. Fuck you.

My phone buzzes three times in quick succession.

Lexi: i’m still sore from last night

Lexi: and i still need you inside me

Lexi: come home early. i’ll make it worth it 😈

Back at my desk. The screen still says Q3 projections indicate a strong and offers no further wisdom as of yet.

Me: Lex.

Lexi: what

Me: I need to ask you something and I need you not to take it wrong.

Lexi: that’s an ominous opener for 2pm on a Tuesday

Lexi: you okay?

I look at the screen for a second. Then I type it out before I can rethink it.

Me: What if tonight you were in charge. Not me.

Lexi: ...what do you mean

Me: I mean I come home. I lie down. I keep my hands to myself. You take everything you want, exactly how you want it, without me having to build the whole thing from scratch.

Me: I don’t want a night off. I want to be the one pinned down for once.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Lexi: are you saying you want me to just use you

Me: Yes.

Lexi: like

Lexi: just take what i want. you lie there and let me.

Me: That’s exactly what I’m saying.

Jamie comes back with a second coffee. This time I don’t bother hiding the screen.

A long pause. Then:

Lexi: holy shit

Lexi: why didn’t you say this before

Lexi: okay. here’s what’s going to happen.

Lexi: you’re going to finish your work

Lexi: then come home, strip, and lie down on that bed with your hands above your head

Lexi: and i am going to ride you. slowly. my pace. my rules. you don’t move unless i say you can.

Lexi: i’m going to take my time and get mine and you’re going to lie there and take it

Lexi: and if you’re very good

Lexi: maybe i’ll let you come in my pussy

I set the phone down.

Pick it back up.

Me: You’re going to be the death of me.

Lexi: that’s the plan, baby 😘

Lexi: now go finish your nerdy fucking projections or whatever. clock’s ticking.

I sit back down. My hands find the keyboard.

Q3 projections indicate a strong — I start typing. Fast. My lower back still aches. My thighs still have every complaint on file.

But for the first time all day, going home doesn’t sound like something I’ll need to recover from.

It sounds like something worth finishing work for.

---

FINE PRINT

When I got home, I saw something. Black strappy sandals. Not Lexi’s.

I stand in the entryway holding my bag and the shoes just sit there, saying nothing helpful.

“You’re home.” Lexi appears from the kitchen in my button-down — just the button-down — holding a glass of red wine. “Right on time.”

“Those are—” I point at the sandals.

“Demi’s.”

“No shit?”

“She’s in the kitchen.”

“You could have mentioned—”

“I could have,” Lexi agrees pleasantly, and sips her wine.

Demi rounds the corner with a dish towel over her shoulder and a smile that has never once in my life meant that things were about to get simple. She’s in a slip dress the colour of red wine and bare feet and she leans against the doorframe with her arms crossed like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment.

“Hey, stranger,” she says.

“Hey.”

“You look tired.”

“Thank you, Demi.” I said dryly.

“Lexi told me about the new arrangement.” Her eyes cut sideways to my wife with a small, conspiratorial sort of look that I don’t like the look of at all.

I look at Lexi. “What arrangement.”

“The one where you lie down and I do all the work.” Lexi crosses the room, takes the bag off my shoulder, sets it on the chair. Her hand trails down my chest on the way back. “That’s still happening.”

“Right.” I start to exhale.

“But.” She tilts her head. “I said I get to work you. I didn’t say anything about you lying there while Demi works you.”

Dead air.

“What’s the difference,” I say carefully, enunciating each word.

“The difference,” Lexi says, “is that if Demi’s here, you still have to be useful.”

Demi unfolds from the doorframe, sets the dish towel on the counter, and picks up her own glass.

“Useful,” I repeat.

“I think you know what useful means,” Lexi says.

I look at Demi. Demi raises an eyebrow and takes a sip.

My back is still doing its thing. My thighs have yet to withdraw their numerous objections. I open my mouth to say something that will probably not help me at all — and then Lexi puts one finger in the centre of my chest and walks me backward toward the hallway, one step at a time, until the doorframe meets my shoulder blades.

“I get to lie down,” she says quietly, close enough that I can smell the wine on her. “You lie down under me. That part stays the same.” Her eyes stay on mine. “Demi kneels above you. Or whatever she feels like. That part’s new.”

“And I—”

“Use your hands. Your mouth. Whatever she needs.” She pauses. “Whatever I need also applies.”

“Both at the same time.”

“You’re good at multitasking.”

“Lexi.”

“You literally did this a couple weeks ago.”

“That was—” I stop. She has a point and she knows she has a point and she’s got me.

“Did you actually forget to mention this?” I ask.

She presses her lips together. “Did I?”

“Lex.”

“Oops,” she says. And she doesn’t sound even slightly sorry. Not even a little bit.

From the kitchen, Demi calls out: “I heard oops. Does that mean we’re doing this?”

Lexi takes a step back, tips her glass toward the bedroom, eyebrows up. A question that isn’t really a question.

I look at the ceiling for approximately two seconds.

“You’re both unbelievable.”

“You love it,” Lexi says.

“I’m going to need water first.”

“There’s a glass on the nightstand.” She pushes off the doorframe. “I planned ahead.”

Of course she did. I hear Demi’s bare feet behind me and the clink of her glass hitting the counter.

Lexi drops onto the bed in a diagonal sprawl, fully unhurried, and looks up at me.

“Hands above your head the whole time,” she says. “That’s still the rule.”

“Even when—”

“Especially when.” She pulls her knee up. “Get comfortable. This is going to take a while.”

Demi appears in the doorway behind me, and when I glance back she’s already pulling the slip dress over her head with the matter-of-fact energy of someone who has absolutely no plans of going easy on me.

“Hands and mouth,” Demi says. “Lexi gets the rest of you.” She tilts her head. “Think you can manage?”

I sit down on the bed. Reach for the water. Drink half of it.

“Yeah,” I say. “I can manage.”

Lexi takes the glass out of my hand and sets it on the nightstand.

“Lie down,” she says.

I do.

She swings a leg over me like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and maybe for her it is.

I should have read the fine print.

---

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING

You probably think I don’t have a single complaint in the world right now.

I see you. Go ahead and say it. Your problems, man. I know. I know exactly how this looks from the outside and I am fully aware that I have approximately zero ground to stand on. I’m lying in my own bed. My wife is riding my cock masterfully — taking what’s hers I suppose. Demi is kneeling above my face with her thick thighs bracketing my head and her hands braced on the headboard and the only view I have is the warm, generous curve of her stomach dropping into her hips and the soft weight of her pressing down and look — I get it. I get it. My lobster is absolutely too juicy. Obviously. We don’t need to have that conversation. Fuck you.

And yet.

Lexi rolls her hips and I lose track of everything.

“Aw,” she says sweetly, from somewhere south of my sternum. “Are you tired, baby?”

I say something. It comes out muffled. Demi’s thighs tighten and whatever I was trying to articulate gets reconsidered.

“I can’t hear you,” Lexi says.

She knows I can’t answer. That’s the whole point. She sets a pace that’s oh so fucking delightful and I can basically feel her smiling about it without seeing her face.

“Poor thing.” Her palm flattens on my chest. “You’ve had such a hard week. You work so hard. We just want to take care of you.”

Demi tips her head back and makes a sound low in her throat that travels through my entire skull. Above me, her belly curves soft and full as she arches, the underside of her breasts swaying with the movement, the stretch of her waist going long when she reaches back to brace one hand on my knee. She is built like something sculpted and unhurried, marble, Greek, wide at the hip, generous everywhere, and right now she is shaking with it, thighs trembling, breath punching out in short bursts.

“Oh god,” Demi breathes. “Oh — don’t stop —”

I don’t stop. I won’t.

My hands are above my head. Thems the rules. My hands are above my head and my jaw aches and Lexi rolls her hips again in that slow, grinding way that makes the math of all of this very difficult and Demi grabs the headboard with both hands and the whole frame knocks back against the wall and some small part of me wonders if the neighbors will hear that but then I remember that we live in East Sterling, and are pretty affluent from all the money I make. Anyways.

“There he is,” Lexi murmurs. Approving. She braces her hands on my stomach and picks up the pace just enough to be cruel. “See? Was that so hard? Isn’t this nice?”

I make a noise.

“I’m sorry, what?” Pure concern in her voice. The theatrical kind though. “Use your words, baby.”

Demi gasps and shudders above me, her whole body going soft and then rigid, the swell of her stomach contracting, head dropping forward so her hair curtains down. She says my name once, sharp and fractured, and then again quieter, and then she just breathes, long and open, her weight settling on me, her thighs still bracketing my face while she comes down from it.

“Oh my god, fuck,” she says to no one, to the ceiling, to whatever higher power handles this department. “Oh my god, shit.”

“How’s my husbands tongue? Good?” Lexi asks, not slowing at all.

“So good.” Demi laughs — loose, helpless, still catching her breath. “I actually can’t feel my legs.”

“Welcome to my life,” I say. Muffled. Mostly into Demi’s inner thigh.

Lexi pinches my side.

“Did I say you could talk?”

“I thought we were sharing.”

“You thought wrong.” She leans forward, and whatever she does with the shift in angle makes my back arch involuntarily off the mattress and my hands clench into fists above my head.

“Aw,” she says softly, watching me. “There it is. There’s my guy.”

Demi, still catching her breath above me, looks down. Her cheeks are flushed deep, eyes glassy, lips parted. She reaches down and brushes my hair back from my forehead with two fingers — almost tender. Interesting, considering she’s not my wife.

“He looks like he’s doing math,” she tells Lexi.

“He is always doing math.”

“Is it hard math?”

“The hardest,” Lexi confirms.

They are having this conversation over my body like I’m a piece of furniture that can overhear them, which — yes. I am. That is what’s happening.

“I’m right here,” I say.

“We know.” Lexi’s voice drops, close now, her mouth near my ear. The slow roll of her hips goes slower. More pointed. She knows exactly what that does and she does it anyway and I exhale through my teeth. “That’s kind of the point, sweetheart.”

Demi shifts above me. Rolls her hips once — experimental, interested again already — and I feel it in my molars.

“Round two?” she asks. Cheerful. Genuinely cheerful.

I look up at the ceiling past the soft, warm weight of her. At the light fixture. At the small crack in the plaster from when we moved the bookcase last spring. At the fundamental unfairness of the universe.

“I’m going to need thirty seconds,” I say.

“You have fifteen,” Lexi says.

“Lex.”

“Twelve.”

“That’s not—”

“Ten.”

Above me, Demi starts laughing, her stomach shaking with it, and even through the laughter she’s already moving, already settling back into it, and Lexi leans down and presses her mouth to the side of my jaw and says, right against my skin, warm and sweet and completely without mercy:

“I’m taking care of you, baby. You said you wanted this.”

I did.

I did say that.

My hands stay above my head.

---

SPONGY AND BRUISED

Here is what nobody tells you about getting everything you asked for.

You still have to survive it.

Lexi climbs off me with the unhurried energy of someone rearranging furniture. She plants a knee beside my ribs, surveys the situation — Demi still glowing and loose-limbed above me, me staring at the ceiling with the thousand-yard stare of a man who has done quadratic equations in his head six times in the last forty minutes — and announces, with the tone of a project manager pivoting to phase two:

“Switch.”

Demi peels herself off me. I start to sit up. Lexi puts a hand flat on my chest and pushes me back down.

“Where are you going?”

“I thought—”

“You thought what?” She swings a leg over and walks her knees forward on the mattress until she’s above my face. Different angle now. Better angle, my brain notes, automatically, against my will.

“Oh,” I say.

“Yeah.” She looks down at me over her shoulder, one hand already reaching back to grip the headboard. “Now be good.”

She lowers herself. I stop thinking in full sentences.

Behind her — through the narrowed slice of the room I can still see — Demi wraps a hand around me and I make a noise that has no letters in it.

Lexi glances back. “What was that?”

I don’t answer because I can’t answer. Demi sinks down onto me, slow, and the air goes out of my lungs in a controlled demolition.

“That’s what I thought,” Lexi says, satisfied, and turns back around.

---

Here is what I can tell you about Lexi when she’s in this position and in this mood: she has absolutely no volume control and zero self-consciousness about it and I have spent four years being deeply grateful for both of those things.

“Right there,” she says, already. “Don’t you dare move from that spot. You stay exactly — yes. Yes. That’s it. That’s my good boy.”

Her hips roll forward and I adjust and she sucks in a breath through her teeth.

“You know what I was thinking about all day?” Her voice drops into that register that does specific damage. “I was sitting at my desk thinking about your mouth. This exact thing. Your mouth right here while I — god — while I just — use it — “

Demi plants her hands on my thighs and sets a pace. Unhurried. Thorough. Like she has a checklist and time to get through all of it.

“He’s so good,” Demi says, conversationally, to Lexi’s back.

“I know,” Lexi says, like a woman accepting a compliment about a soufflé she made. “Tell me about it.”

Her hand finds the headboard again. Her knees dig into the mattress.

“I was in a meeting today,” she continues, breathless, the words coming out clipped and uneven now, “and all I kept — there, don’t stop — all I kept thinking was get home get home get home and make him — make him do exactly—”

She stops talking because I do something with my tongue that makes her whole body jolt forward and grab the headboard with both hands.

“Okay,“ she says. High-pitched. Surprised, which after four years is genuinely the greatest compliment she gives me.

Demi laughs.

“Okay?” Demi asks.

“Shut up.“

Lexi drops her forehead to the headboard. Her knuckles are white. “Don’t stop,” she says to me, softer now, something cracking at the edges of it. “Please don’t stop. I’m so close. I’m — you feel so — baby.“

That last word comes out wrecked and private, stripped of all the performance.

I don’t stop.

Demi doesn’t stop either. Her thighs smack warm against mine with every drop, her breathing climbing, one hand moving from my thigh to her own body, and I can see the flush spreading down her chest above me and the soft weight of her moving and I am doing math again, desperate math, urgent math, the kind of math where all the variables are working against me simultaneously.

Lexi comes with her face pressed into her forearms and a sound like she’s been punched, hips stuttering, grinding down, legs shaking on either side of my face. She says something. I don’t catch the word. I don’t need to.

She goes still.

Her whole body sags.

“Oh my god,“ Demi says, watching her. “You looked like—”

“Don’t,” Lexi says, into her forearms. “Don’t describe it.”

“I was going to say beautiful.“

“...okay you can describe it.”

Demi shifts above me. One hand flattens on my stomach. She picks up the pace and I am out of runway. I am completely, categorically, mathematically out of runway. Every system I have is sending the same alert.

I try to say something.

It comes out: “Mmfgmg.“

Lexi lifts her head from the headboard.

“What?”

I try again. Muffled. Mostly into her lower back.

“What?“ She shifts just enough to ungag me.

“I’m gonna fucking cum — “

Lexi turns. Fast. Eyes bright, cheeks red, hair a disaster. She looks at Demi. She looks at me. She bites down on her lip so hard I think she might actually break skin.

“Inside her,” she says.

“Lex—”

“I want you to cum inside her.” The words come out low and private, meant only for me, and her eyes are doing the thing, that specific thing they do. “I want to watch you. Do it.“

Demi makes a choked sound above me.

“You heard her,” Demi says. Not a question.

Lexi sits back on her heels and watches and that — that right there, her face, the specific expression of a woman who has engineered exactly this outcome and is drinking in every second of the result — that is what finishes me.

I stop doing math.

Everything white.

Demi’s nails press into my stomach and she drops down hard once, twice, her own breath stopping, and then she makes a sound that bounces off every wall in the room and collapses forward over me, catching herself on her hands, hair falling around us like a curtain.

We stay like that for a moment. Nobody moves.

The lamp flickers. Or maybe that’s me.

Lexi climbs off the bed. I hear her pour water. She comes back and holds the glass over my face.

“Drink.”

I drink.

She takes the glass back. Studies me. Her head tilts.

“You okay?”

“Define okay.”

“Breathing.”

“Technically.”

Demi rolls sideways onto the mattress and stares at the ceiling with an expression that could only be described as spiritually evacuated. “I can’t feel my knees,” she announces, to the room.

“Your knees were fine,” Lexi says. “He was nowhere near your knees.”

“Bah I’m fat, bitch.”

We all laugh and then Lexi sits cross-legged at the end of the bed. She’s got the wine glass again — how, I don’t know, when did she get that — and she looks between me and Demi with the composed satisfaction of someone who has successfully executed a difficult itinerary.

“Round three?” she asks.

The silence is long.

“Babe,” I say.

“Mm.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” She sips her wine. “Round three?”

Demi turns her head to look at me. I turn my head to look at her. Her mascara is halfway down her face and her hair is enormous and she looks like she was caught in a very specific kind of explosive weather event. She raises her eyebrows.

A question.

I look at the ceiling.

I do the math one more time.

The math says: no. The math says the body is a biological system with finite resources and I have exceeded the recommended daily allowance by several orders of magnitude and somewhere my lower back is drafting a letter to HR and my thighs have called a union meeting and every single one of my fluids needs to be replaced from scratch. Like an oil change at Jiffy Lube. All my oils. Full tune up.

I think about how to say all of this.

“The spirit,” I say, slowly, “is willing.”

Lexi waits.

“But the flesh.” I pause. I look at my own hand theatrically like I’m not sure it’s mine.

“The flesh is spongy and bruised.”

Demi snorts. Then laughs. Then covers her face with both hands and keeps laughing, shoulders shaking, the whole generous weight of her shuddering with it.

Lexi stares at me for a long moment. Then she looks at Demi. Then back at me.

“Did you just quote Futurama,” she says, “directly after sex.”

“I did.”

“In our bed.”

“Also yes.”

She looks at the wine glass. Sets it down very carefully on the nightstand. Lies down beside me, throws one leg over mine, puts her chin on my shoulder.

“You horrify me,” she says.

“Fair.”

She presses her mouth to my jaw. “Sleep.”

“I’ve been trying to sleep since Tuesday.”

“Well.” She pulls the blanket up over both of us. Behind her, Demi has gone quiet, one arm over her face, already halfway somewhere boneless and unconscious. Lexi’s hand settles flat on my chest.

“Now you can,” she says.

I close my eyes.

My lower back is still furious. My thighs will not forgive me before Friday at the earliest. I have consumed enough water tonight to reverse a drought and I will need more before morning. I have not finished the Q3 projections. I have absolutely no idea what day it is at this point.

The lamp goes off.

I don’t move.

The flesh is spongy and bruised.

But I am, against all odds and in spite of everything, exactly where I asked to be.

Authors Note: Thank you for reading. Support me on Amazon here if you like!

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