So there I was again, hanging out in my favourite pub on a busy Saturday night, talking to my buddy Zack, half-focused on him, half-focused on finding a good-looking guy to take home and fuck into oblivion.
Yeah, I knew Zack wanted me, and the truth is that I wanted him, too, but neither one of us had ever acted on it. My rationale was: why ruin a perfectly good friendship just because a wet spot formed on my thong whenever I was around him?
On that particular evening, he was telling me about this chick Lisa he was lusting after, while I was glancing about the room, sweeping my gaze over all the men, checking out their faces or their asses, whichever my eyes landed on first.
There didn't seem to be anyone of interest, so I decided to concentrate fully on my beer. As I turned my head towards my pint on the bar, I spotted him, his blue eyes fixed intently on my tits.
He must have sensed that he'd been caught, because he lifted his face, and I could see a distinctly sheepish look spread across it. The look was perfectly charming. He was perfectly charming.
He appeared a bit surprised when I stared at him in open invitation, but he was perceptive enough to get the message. He immediately picked up his drink and came over. Zack, completely used to men materializing by my side, greeted him amicably.
He introduced himself as Neal, with an "a". After my eyes had fully roamed over his face and body, I decided that I quite liked Neal, with an "a". In addition to his good looks, he had an easy way about him. He was completely comfortable in his own skin.
Zack liked him, too, although not in the "God, I want to get into this man's pants" sort of way that I did. The three of us chatted as if we were old friends. He had a wonderful sense of humour, an impressive intellect, and a highly sexual manner that made me hornier than all fuck.
If not for the fact that our little trio seemed to share an unusual and inexplicable rapport, I would have dragged Neal out the door by his hair, brought him home, and screwed him seven ways from Sunday. Instead, I sat back and enjoyed the conversation. After a while, I even stopped noticing that my pussy was beating like a tribal drum.
When the bartender announced last call, none of us could believe that we'd been talking for so long, or that the pub had almost completely emptied. We ordered another round, and went back to our discussion. The next thing we knew, the lights were going off as all but two employees headed out the door.
They didn't ask us to leave, so we didn't move. We just laughed at the fact that we'd unwittingly closed down the bar, outlasting even the most devoted and drunken of patrons. But as the laughter died down, it finally happened: we had our first awkward silence. We sat and looked at each other, at a loss for what to say or do.
To break the silence, I flippantly asked, "Okay, then, how about that threesome?" I expected a flippant response, or at the very least, a giggle or two. But Neal enthusiastically replied, "Hey, I'm all for it," and Zack—my platonic friend Zack—chimed in, "Sounds good to me."
I suppose I could have told them right then and there that I was just kidding, and left it at that. Or I could have jokingly called them perverts, punched each of them in the arm, and gone on my merry way. But for some unfathomable reason, I waited, a strange sense of excitement mounting, to see how it would play out.
In something akin to an out-of-body experience, I listened as the two of them ironed out the details. Neal enquired, "Which do you want first?" Zack grinned, and said without the least bit of hesitation, "I'll take the top half." Neal then exclaimed, "Excellent! I'll take the bottom."
This struck me as funny somehow, so I retorted, "I'm beginning to feel like a piece of meat... I'll have a wing, I'll have a leg, I'll have a breast." The two of them didn't seem to see the humour in it, however. Neal's sole response was to get off his barstool, kneel by my feet, remove a sandal, and start massaging my foot.
Well, that was it for me. The touch of his hands made my heart pound and my insides turn to goo. I mumbled something to the effect of, "But if you throw in a foot rub, you can treat me like a leg of mutton for all I care." Again, nobody laughed.
In fact, Neal just went on to explain that a massage is an excellent way to begin any sexual encounter, since it creates a sense of relaxation, intimacy, giving and trust. Zack, on the other hand, remained glued to his chair. I think he was overcome by incredulity at the turn of events.
As Neal firmly pressed his fingers into the arch of my foot and between my toes, I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, let out a few barely audible moans, and floated away. Then, from somewhere in the distance, I heard him ask, "Are you just going to sit there, Z?"
That shook both Zack and me out of our reveries. I looked back at him with my dark eyes shining, and gave him a reassuring nod. He stood up, moved behind my stool, put his hands on my shoulders, gently kneaded my muscles, then cupped my chin in his hand, turned my head, brought his face close to mine, and placed a soft kiss on my lips.
Neal, unfazed by this show of tenderness, announced, "You know, this could very well be the kinkiest thing I've ever done," then bent my toes up and down, rotated my ankle, and moved on to the other foot, quickly removing the shoe.
Somewhat taken aback by Zack's gentle, almost romantic gesture, I absent-mindedly responded, "Kinky is good." But as Neal stroked the reflex on the inside of my arch with a fingernail, I was brought back to the electrifying effect of his touch, my foot tingling, my body tensing with anticipation. I volunteered to no one in particular, "Love nails raking across my flesh."
