Blood Brothers

NOTE: story contains bisexual male/gay content.

...A twist on cuckold. An ambiguously gendered, bisexual protagonist uses wife to get to husband in a three-way exchange of lust, anger, jealousy, and fear...

*

She's telling me about the time you cracked your head open as a kid while I pretend to hear the story for the first time. You both tell it the same way as if you've rehearsed it countless times over the course of your marriage. I remember to laugh and be sympathetic at the right moments, though my mind is focused on the dissonance between her upbeat delivery and the lines of sadness around her eyes.

How did I end up here on your couch with your wife, drinking a glass of cheap red wine in the middle of the afternoon? It's completely absurd. Regardless of the stories you and I have shared, we are only brothers until 5 o'clock, and then your personal life is completely separate from mine.

So this is the first time I've really talked to your wife at length; the first time I've noticed how elegant she is under the weariness. By the time she reaches the punchline of your story -- where you pass out at the sight of your own blood -- my vision has narrowed to her lips. I hear no words, only the cadence and pitch of her expression.

God, I wish you would just show up so we can go to the damn vendor fair that our boss is making us attend. I resist the urge to look at my watch. I'd be too rude if I wondered out loud how much longer you'll be.

She leans toward me to top off my glass and I can see down her shirt. My face, already ruddy from wine, grows a shade deeper in embarrassment. If she notices where my eyes have wandered, she pretends she hasn't. The thought of touching her breasts ignites a cocktail of fear and desire in the pit of my belly. I feel myself getting hard when I think of how it would make you feel...

She talks to me like I am a newcomer to your lives; an outsider. I suppose I am. I wonder if you've told her my story; not the kind of story you tell to demonstrate your intimacy with someone, but the kind you tell sparingly, desperately. I still have no idea why you were the first one I told.

Ugh, where the hell are you? You were supposed to meet me twenty minutes ago.

Maybe she does know my story; or she understands what you mean to me somehow. She rests her hand on my knee as if it's normal for her to do so and asks if I want to see the rest of your place. I follow her euphemism with curiosity. Before I can even see the kitchen, I'm in your bed and my tongue is in her mouth.

Her hunger makes me wonder when you last kissed her like this. She reaches through me, as if she could touch you there. I don't need to wonder anymore about what you've shared with her, having been married to her all these years. She knows how strongly I feel about you, and how I need you. And she's using it to her advantage.

I go down on her with forceful reverence. Her body is melting in my arms and my mouth as she reaches up for my fingers. I hold out to increase the heat in her. Her moans are so soft, like she is afraid she will frighten me away. When I finally reach up inside her, her throat opens with long cries of pleasure that bring tears to the corners of my eyes. We don't even hear you come into the house, let alone the room.

She notices you first and gasps, wiggling away from me. I instinctively feel your presence behind me; I recognize the subtle sounds of your body by ear. I turn to you. The color has drained from your face and your eyes blink long and slow. I feel a pang of regret; I didn't mean to throw your heart onto the ground.

I leap up toward you, forgetting that I'm naked from the waist down. I embrace you, kissing your neck as an apology and an invitation. At first you don't move at all. I can tell from your eyes you've gone to that mental space where you try to think about something so hard in order to avoid feeling it. I imagine your brain oscillating between wanting to fuck me and wanting to kill me.

Your face is wet, but I can't tell if the droplets are sweat or tears. I taste you, as if I could consume your fears and uncertainty. When she comes to you, you begin to relax. She kisses you the way she was kissing me, but now less hungry, more assertive. I feel a twinge of jealousy when I see you kiss her back.

I should just find my jeans and get the fuck out of here, let you two be, let you work it out, get out of your way. I move to get dressed when you interrupt me with a gruff imperative: "come back here." I freeze. The grain of your voice... The blossoming ache of longing in my pelvis...

She kisses me again deeply in front of you. I think you might hit me. She is so soft and open. Part of me wishes you were not here at all so I could revel in her body and imagine your jealousy at a safe remove.

You grab my arm firmly and push me hard enough that I stumble backward. "What do you want?" you ask me, your eyes now alive and electric. I've been contorting myself, trying to anticipate you, sparing with you, and I'm exhausted by it. So I crossed the line, put my stake in the ground, put my body in your bed, and took your wife in my arms. I refuse to equivocate or apologize:

"I want to make your wife happier than you can. I want to feel her softness in my mouth and feel her open around my fingers. I want to make her tremble and scream..."

You slap me across the face. My cheek grows hot and full of energy that is in the shape of your hand. You still have your boots on and you are standing close, stepping lightly, consciously, on my bare toes. I feel your breath. I want you more than anything right now, but I will not give you the satisfaction of hearing me say it out loud.

She gasps in surprise at your aggression, attempting to calm you by touching your arm. She picks me up from our scuffle and pushes our heads together, telling us, "it's OK. Be good to each other."

I grasp your shirt and kiss your mouth and we spar with our tongues instead. I skip unbuttoning your shirt and head straight for your belt buckle. I can't get it undone; my hands are shaking. I hear you laugh quietly, nervously, as we both focus on you.

Just before I touch you, you look at me, not with anger but with tenderness. I find myself softening toward you in a way that is terrifying and exhilarating.

You butch up again and take control. Perhaps you know this need I cannot name: I want to feel your desire running through your body, into mine and into hers.

"Do it then," you command. "Get on your knees and work her over. Then you'll get what's coming to you," he adds slyly.

She pulls me up onto the bed, telling me: "it's ok you can relax." And somehow I do as I burry my face in her sex. I mark her body with my mouth in front of you. I want to please you in how well I'm taking her.

I can't see your face or sense where you are until I feel your hands on my hips. I bolt up, terrified and find comfort in contact with your body, now naked. You breathe in my ear, "she's beautiful isn't she?"

"She is," I affirm, gazing at her and then into your eyes. We sit together, legs entangled, skin to skin, silently watching her breathless, wanting body. Your cock twitches and brushes lightly against my ass. I feel myself drifting away from my body, losing my armor, wanting both of you.

"Fuck me," I demand, softly in your ear, "fuck me while I go down on your wife." Your earlier aggression has faded to assertive playfulness. You push my head back into her as you come into me.