Jan's Fantasy
Jan tapped her fingernails against the wine glass, the rhythm uneven like her heartbeat. She hated when people asked about fantasies—not because she didn’t have any, but because hers were the kind you didn’t admit out loud, especially not in front of your best friend’s husband. The living room smelled like cheap chardonnay and the faint chemical tang of Ken’s cologne, something sporty and aggressively masculine that didn’t quite suit him.
Jan took another sip, stalling. The wine burned her throat, but not as much as the idea of saying it. She glanced at Ken—his stupid, earnest face tilted toward her with polite curiosity—and wondered if he'd laugh or just look uncomfortable.
Marge kicked off her sandals and tucked one foot under her thigh, leaning closer. "Come on, Jan. You're blushing. That means it's good."
Jan exhaled sharply through her nose, a laugh without humour. "Fine. But if I say it, you both have to promise not to—" She waved her hand vaguely, "—do that thing where you act like I've just confessed to drowning kittens."
Ken raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning. "No judgments here. Scout's honour." The way his fingers fumbled the salute made Jan snort—somehow, even his awkwardness was endearing.
Jan's fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. The condensation made it slippery, and she focused on that—anything but the heat crawling up her neck. "Alright," she said, voice lower than she meant it to be. "But remember, you asked." She inhaled, then let the words out in a rush: "I've always wanted to be with two people at once. Not just... mechanically. But like, really *wanted*." The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Ken's grin froze mid-salute. Marge blinked, then blinked again, like she was rebooting.
Ken cleared his throat first, the sound too loud in the quiet. His fingers twitched against his knee, then stilled. "Like... simultaneously?" he asked, and Jan couldn't tell if he was clarifying or just stalling for time.
Jan rolled her eyes, but her pulse hammered against her ribs. "Yes, Ken. *Simultaneously.*" She dragged the word out, mocking his tone, but her fingers trembled just slightly against her wine glass. Marge hadn't moved—still leaning forward, still watching Jan like she'd just turned into a crossword puzzle with no easy answers.
Marge's mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile—the kind Jan hadn't seen since they were sixteen and plotting to sneak vodka into the homecoming dance. "Well," Marge said, dragging the word out like a secret, "that *is* convenient." She flicked her gaze to Ken, who was suddenly very interested in a loose thread on his cuff. "Isn't it, babe?"
Ken’s fingers stilled on his cuff. The thread snapped under his nervous tug. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again—a fish gulping air. Jan watched the panic flicker across his face with perverse fascination. This was the man who once bragged about negotiating corporate mergers without breaking a sweat, now reduced to a stammering mess by a single loaded sentence from his wife.
Ken's throat worked soundlessly for a second before he managed a strangled, "*Convenient?*" His gaze darted between the two women like he was watching a tennis match of impending disaster. The living room's overhead light flickered—just a faulty bulb, but the timing was cinematic. Shadows leapt across Marge's smirk.
Marge didn’t blink. She just reached for her wineglass, took a deliberate sip, and set it down with a quiet *click* on the coffee table. "Convenient," she repeated, slower this time, "because you’re here." Her finger tapped the rim of the glass—once, twice—before she added, "And I’ve always wondered what you’d look like when you’re flustered, Ken."
Ken's Adam's apple bobbed violently, his fingers now gripping the couch cushion like it might save him from drowning. Jan watched, half-mortified and half-giddy, as sweat beaded along his hairline. Marge just kept smiling—that same, terrifying smile she'd worn when convincing Jan to steal Mr. Henderson's prized garden gnome senior year.
That was also the year they'd experimented with exploring each other's bodies—hot, fumbling afternoons in Jan's bedroom, the floral sheets sticking to their skin, both of them pretending it was just curiosity, just *practice* for the boys they'd eventually date. Marge had been the bold one, always, her fingers tracing patterns on Jan's ribs like she was mapping territory. Jan remembered the way Marge's breath hitched when she finally worked up the nerve to reciprocate, the way they'd laughed afterward, giddy and guilty, swearing never to speak of it again. Until now, apparently.
Marge said, "remember our last year at school? I've always considered that unfinished business."
Ken made a noise like a deflating balloon. Jan watched, mesmerized, as his ears turned the same shade as the cheap merlot they'd opened an hour ago. Marge stretched her arms above her head, the hem of her blouse riding up just enough to reveal the scar from her appendectomy—the one Jan had traced with her tongue twenty years ago in a haze of peach schnapps and teenage desperation.
Ken's fingers dug deeper into the couch cushion, the fabric protesting under his grip. "Unfinished—what?" His voice cracked on the last syllable. Jan couldn't help it—she laughed, the sound spilling out of her like wine from an overfilled glass. Marge's smirk widened, predatory, her eyes never leaving Jan's face.
Marge rose from her stool, walked over to Jan and kissed her—not a friendly peck but a long, deep, passionate kiss that tasted like cheap wine and decades of unsaid things. Jan's fingers spasmed around her glass before letting it tilt, the remaining liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Some detached part of her brain registered the sound of Ken choking on his own spit behind them, but Marge’s mouth was warm and insistent, her tongue sliding against Jan’s with a confidence that made her knees weak. It wasn’t the first time they’d done this, but it was the first time with an audience—and that thought sent a jolt of heat straight to Jan’s core.
Marge's fingers twisted in the hem of Jan's blouse, yanking it upward with a sharpness that sent buttons scattering across the hardwood. Jan gasped into the kiss—half protest, half exhilaration—as cool air hit her bare stomach. The fabric tore at the seams, but neither of them cared, not when Marge's nails were already raking up Jan's ribs, rediscovering old territory with feverish precision. Ken made another strangled noise, but it was drowned out by the slick sound of lips parting, by Jan's moan as Marge bit down on her lower lip just shy of painful.
Ken's cock had been reacting since Marge's fingers first tangled in Jan's hair, and now—with the sound of fabric tearing and Jan's breathless gasp—it strained painfully against his zipper. He fumbled with his belt, hands shaking so badly the buckle clattered like a dropped spoon. The couch groaned under his shifting weight as he finally freed himself, his erection springing free with an almost comical urgency. The air was too warm, too thick with wine and arousal, and Ken's pulse pounded in his ears as he watched Marge's mouth trail down Jan's throat.
Jan glanced over—just a flick of her eyes, really—and felt her breath hitch. Ken's cock stood thick and flushed against his stomach, the length of it obscenely obvious even in the dim living room light. It was bigger than her ex's by a laughable margin, the kind of difference that made her wonder if she'd ever actually been properly fucked before. The thought sent a fresh wave of heat between her thighs.
Jan's breath hitched as the image burned through her—Ken's hips slamming against her from behind while her tongue worked Marge in slow, wet circles. The fantasy was so vivid she could already feel the strain in her thighs from straddling Marge's face, the hot slap of Ken's skin against her ass as he drove into her. Her voice came out rough, half-dazed: "I want you behind me," she told Ken, then turned to Marge with a grin that was all teeth, "and you under me."
Clothing disappeared as if by magic—or more accurately, as if three pairs of hands had decided fabric was the enemy. Ken's shirt went first, ripped open by Marge with a single yank that sent buttons pinging off the lampshade. Jan's torn blouse fluttered to the floor like a wounded bird while Marge's skirt pooled around her ankles with a whisper of silk. The carpet was rough against Jan's bare knees, the fibres pressing tiny indents into her skin as she knelt between Marge's thighs, but the discomfort barely registered—not with Ken's hot breath on her neck and Marge's fingers twisting in her hair.
Ken's hands hovered over Jan's hips like he was afraid she might shatter—until Marge arched beneath them with a sharp laugh and growled, "For fuck's sake, Ken, *grip* her." His fingers dug in then, blunt and unapologetic, the pressure just shy of bruising as Jan rocked back against him. She could feel the slick heat of him pressing against her, the teasing drag of his cock along her slit making her gasp. Marge seized the moment to yank Jan forward by the hair, her other hand spreading herself wide—an unspoken command. Jan obeyed, tongue flattening against Marge in one long, filthy lick that tasted like salt and the faint chemical tang of arousal.
Ken’s fingers tightened on Jan’s hips as she rocked back against him, the friction of his cock dragging against her slick folds sending sparks up her spine. She moaned into Marge’s cunt, her tongue working in slow, deliberate circles—just the way Marge had taught her all those years ago. Marge’s thighs clamped around Jan’s head, her hips jerking upward as she let out a ragged gasp. “Fuck, you remember,” she panted, fingers twisting in Jan’s hair hard enough to make her scalp sting.
Ken's breath came in ragged bursts against the nape of Jan's neck, his fingers leaving crescent-shaped impressions in the soft flesh of her hips. The scent of sweat and sex thickened the air as he finally pushed into her—slow at first, then with a sudden, desperate snap of his hips that drew a muffled cry from Jan's lips. Her mouth never left Marge, though, her tongue still working in practiced strokes even as Ken fucked her with a rhythm that sent the coffee table skidding backward with each thrust.
The coffee table hit the wall with a dull thud, but no one cared—not when Marge was arching off the couch with a strangled cry, her thighs trembling around Jan’s head. Jan could feel Ken’s rhythm stutter behind her, his thrusts growing uneven as Marge’s fingers clenched tighter in her hair. The sharp pull sent a bolt of pleasure-pain down her spine, syncing perfectly with the deep drag of Ken’s cock inside her.
Jan's voice was raw, the words scraping her throat as she gasped them between Ken's relentless thrusts. "Fill my cunt, Ken—give me your hot cum." The demand hung in the air, thick as the musk of sweat and sex. Ken groaned, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he gripped her hips tighter, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks. Jan could feel the tension coiling in his thighs against hers, the way his breath hitched every time she clenched around him.
Ken grunted as he spent rope after rope of cum into Jan's tight cunt, his hips jerking erratically like a marionette with its strings cut. Jan gasped against Marge's thigh, her tongue stilling as the sudden flood of warmth inside her sent shockwaves up her spine. She could feel each pulse of his release, the way his cock twitched against her walls as if trying to bury itself deeper. The living room smelled like sex and sweat now, the cheap wine forgotten in favour of heavier, muskier pleasures.
Ken fell back against the couch cushions with a groan, his chest still heaving as if he'd just sprinted a mile. His fingers twitched weakly against the leather, tracing aimless patterns in the condensation from his abandoned beer. Jan watched, amused, as his eyelids fluttered shut—the picture of blissful exhaustion—before turning to Marge with a lazy grin. "You hungry?" she asked, swiping a thumb over her lower lip. "Because I've got a cream pie with your name on it."
Jan moved with the languid grace of someone who knew exactly what she wanted—and exactly how to take it. Her knees pressed into the carpet fibres still damp from spilled wine as she settled between Ken's sprawled thighs. His cock glistened in the dim light, slick with her arousal and his release, the scent of sex thick enough to taste. She didn't hesitate, didn't tease—just leaned forward and swiped her tongue along his length in one slow, deliberate stroke, savouring the salty-bitter tang of their mingled fluids.
Jan's thighs trembled as Marge's tongue pressed flat against her, lapping up the evidence of Ken's release with a hum of satisfaction. The sensation was electric—Marge's lips sealing around her swollen clit while her tongue worked deeper, chasing every drop that threatened to escape. Jan's fingers tangled in Marge's hair, not guiding, just anchoring herself as pleasure ripped through her in jagged waves. She could feel the vibrations of Marge's moan against her flesh, the way her throat convulsed as she swallowed—messy, greedy, utterly debauched.
"Save me some Marge," Jan gasped, the words punched out between Ken's fingers tightening in her hair. Marge laughed—low and throaty—from between Jan's thighs, her breath hot against oversensitive skin. Jan's hips jerked involuntarily, her heel digging into the small of Marge's back as if she could press her closer. The living room was a wreck of displaced furniture and discarded clothing, the air thick with the musk of sweat and sex and the faint metallic tang of the wine they'd abandoned hours ago.
Ken's fingers traced idle circles on Jan's bare thigh, his breathing finally steadying after what felt like hours of ragged gasps. The couch cushions were damp beneath them—some combination of sweat and spilled wine—but none of them moved to fix it. Marge lay sprawled across Ken's chest, her fingers idly twisting a lock of Jan's hair as she stared at the ceiling with a dazed grin. The silence wasn't awkward; it was the kind that settled between people who'd just rewritten the rules and found they liked the new ones better.
Jan's fingers traced idle patterns on Marge's knee, her voice still husky from exertion. "Well, my fantasy is done with," she said, lips quirking at the understatement. The wine glass she'd abandoned earlier lay tipped on its side, a crimson stain spreading across the coffee table like a crime scene. "Do you have one, Marge?"
Marge’s grin widened, slow and wicked, as she rolled onto her side to face Jan. Her fingers trailed down Jan’s arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Oh, darling," she purred, "mine’s a bit more… complicated." Ken groaned from beneath them, his palm slapping over his face in mock exasperation, but Jan caught the way his fingers spread just enough to peek.
Marge's fingers paused at Jan's wrist, her thumb pressing into the pulse point there—hard enough to feel the rapid flutter beneath the skin. "Complicated how?" Jan asked, though the glint in Marge's eyes told her she already knew. Marge exhaled through her nose, a slow, deliberate sound, before propping herself up on one elbow. Her free hand trailed down Ken's chest, nails scraping lightly through the sparse hair there, stopping just shy of his softening cock. "Well," she murmured, "I've always wanted to watch you take him... *completely*."
Jan's pulse jumped under Marge's thumb. She could feel Ken's sudden stillness beneath them, the way his breath hitched when Marge's fingers ghosted lower. The air thickened again, charged with something darker now—a promise edged in teeth.
Ken made a choked noise as Marge's fingers curled around him, her thumb swiping over his tip where he was already starting to stiffen again. Jan watched, fascinated, as his cock twitched in Marge's grip—the way his hips jerked involuntarily off the couch despite his exhaustion. Marge's smile was all sharp edges when she turned back to Jan. "You remember how I used to like watching?" she murmured, her voice syrup-slow. "Back when we'd sneak those videos from your brother's stash?"
Jan's throat went dry as Marge's words curled around her—like smoke, like a dare. The memory hit her all at once: stolen afternoons in Jan's bedroom, knees pressed into shag carpeting while grainy VHS tapes played on the tiny TV. Marge had always been the one to angle the screen just so, her breath quickening whenever the camera lingered on a woman's face as she took a cock deeper than seemed possible.
Marge's fingers tightened around Ken's cock, her thumb smearing a bead of moisture across his tip with deliberate precision. "I want to see you choke on it," she said, her voice low and rough as gravel. The words sent a shudder through Jan—half arousal, half something darker she couldn't name. Ken made a strangled noise beneath them, his hips twitching upward as if pulled by invisible strings.
Jan exhaled—slow, deliberate—and rolled onto her knees, the carpet's rough fibres biting into her skin. She caught Ken's gaze, saw the flicker of apprehension there before he swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "You heard her," Jan murmured, fingertips trailing up Ken's thigh, feeling the muscle twitch beneath her touch. "Looks like you're going down my throat."
Ken's breath hitched as Jan's fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, her grip firm enough to make him gasp. The heady scent of their earlier coupling still clung to his skin, mingling with the salt of fresh sweat as Jan leaned in, her breath hot against his length. Marge shifted beside them, her knee pressing into Ken's ribs as she angled herself for a better view—the director of this filthy little tableau.
Ken's cock twitched against Jan's lips as she exhaled slowly—warm breath ghosting over slick skin—before she flattened her tongue and took him in one slow, deliberate stroke. The taste of herself and Ken's earlier release was sharp on her tongue, an intimate cocktail that made her pulse jump. Marge's fingers tightened in Jan's hair, not guiding, just *claiming*, as Jan worked her mouth down Ken's length with practiced ease.
Ken's fingers scrabbled at the couch cushions as Jan's throat opened around him, the wet heat swallowing him deeper than he'd thought possible. His hips jerked involuntarily—a reflexive thrust that made Jan gag—and Marge's laughter curled through the air like smoke. "Easy, tiger," she murmured, her nails scraping down Jan's spine. "Don't ruin the show."
Ken's groan vibrated through Jan's skull as she took him deeper, her nose brushing the wiry hair at his base. Saliva pooled at the corners of her stretched lips—messy, obscene—and she revelled in the shudder that racked Ken's thighs when she swallowed around him. Marge's fingers twisted tighter in her hair, the burn of it syncing perfectly with the ache in Jan's jaw.
Ken's thighs trembled violently as Jan pulled back just enough to drag her teeth lightly along his length—not enough to hurt, just enough to make his breath stutter in a way that vibrated against her tongue. Marge's approving hum buzzed against Jan's shoulder blades, her fingers tightening possessively in Jan's hair. "That's it," Marge murmured, her voice thick with arousal. "Make him *feel* it."
Ken's hands finally moved from their death-grip on the couch cushions to tangle in Jan's hair—not guiding, just holding on as if she were the only thing keeping him from floating away. His hips twitched upward in tiny, involuntary jerks, each one forcing another inch down Jan's throat until tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. The salt of them mingled with the musk of Ken's skin as Marge's fingers traced the damp trails down Jan's cheeks with something like reverence.
Without warning Ken exploded—not in anger, but in a ragged cry that seemed to tear itself from his throat as his hips jerked off the couch. His fingers clenched convulsively in Jan’s hair, holding her in place as his cock pulsed against the back of her throat, each spurt hitting with the force of a gunshot in the quiet room. Jan swallowed instinctively, her throat working around him as Marge’s fingernails bit crescent moons into her shoulder blades.
The living room ceiling spun above Ken in lazy circles as he collapsed back onto the couch, his limbs boneless. Jan pulled back with a wet pop, her lips swollen and glistening. A stray drop trailed down her chin—Ken reached out to catch it with trembling fingers, but Marge was faster. She leaned in, tongue darting out to lick it away with a hum of satisfaction.
Jan took another sip, stalling. The wine burned her throat, but not as much as the idea of saying it. She glanced at Ken—his stupid, earnest face tilted toward her with polite curiosity—and wondered if he'd laugh or just look uncomfortable.
Marge kicked off her sandals and tucked one foot under her thigh, leaning closer. "Come on, Jan. You're blushing. That means it's good."
Jan exhaled sharply through her nose, a laugh without humour. "Fine. But if I say it, you both have to promise not to—" She waved her hand vaguely, "—do that thing where you act like I've just confessed to drowning kittens."
Ken raised his hands in mock surrender, grinning. "No judgments here. Scout's honour." The way his fingers fumbled the salute made Jan snort—somehow, even his awkwardness was endearing.
Jan's fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. The condensation made it slippery, and she focused on that—anything but the heat crawling up her neck. "Alright," she said, voice lower than she meant it to be. "But remember, you asked." She inhaled, then let the words out in a rush: "I've always wanted to be with two people at once. Not just... mechanically. But like, really *wanted*." The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Ken's grin froze mid-salute. Marge blinked, then blinked again, like she was rebooting.
Ken cleared his throat first, the sound too loud in the quiet. His fingers twitched against his knee, then stilled. "Like... simultaneously?" he asked, and Jan couldn't tell if he was clarifying or just stalling for time.
Jan rolled her eyes, but her pulse hammered against her ribs. "Yes, Ken. *Simultaneously.*" She dragged the word out, mocking his tone, but her fingers trembled just slightly against her wine glass. Marge hadn't moved—still leaning forward, still watching Jan like she'd just turned into a crossword puzzle with no easy answers.
Marge's mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile—the kind Jan hadn't seen since they were sixteen and plotting to sneak vodka into the homecoming dance. "Well," Marge said, dragging the word out like a secret, "that *is* convenient." She flicked her gaze to Ken, who was suddenly very interested in a loose thread on his cuff. "Isn't it, babe?"
Ken’s fingers stilled on his cuff. The thread snapped under his nervous tug. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again—a fish gulping air. Jan watched the panic flicker across his face with perverse fascination. This was the man who once bragged about negotiating corporate mergers without breaking a sweat, now reduced to a stammering mess by a single loaded sentence from his wife.
Ken's throat worked soundlessly for a second before he managed a strangled, "*Convenient?*" His gaze darted between the two women like he was watching a tennis match of impending disaster. The living room's overhead light flickered—just a faulty bulb, but the timing was cinematic. Shadows leapt across Marge's smirk.
Marge didn’t blink. She just reached for her wineglass, took a deliberate sip, and set it down with a quiet *click* on the coffee table. "Convenient," she repeated, slower this time, "because you’re here." Her finger tapped the rim of the glass—once, twice—before she added, "And I’ve always wondered what you’d look like when you’re flustered, Ken."
Ken's Adam's apple bobbed violently, his fingers now gripping the couch cushion like it might save him from drowning. Jan watched, half-mortified and half-giddy, as sweat beaded along his hairline. Marge just kept smiling—that same, terrifying smile she'd worn when convincing Jan to steal Mr. Henderson's prized garden gnome senior year.
That was also the year they'd experimented with exploring each other's bodies—hot, fumbling afternoons in Jan's bedroom, the floral sheets sticking to their skin, both of them pretending it was just curiosity, just *practice* for the boys they'd eventually date. Marge had been the bold one, always, her fingers tracing patterns on Jan's ribs like she was mapping territory. Jan remembered the way Marge's breath hitched when she finally worked up the nerve to reciprocate, the way they'd laughed afterward, giddy and guilty, swearing never to speak of it again. Until now, apparently.
Marge said, "remember our last year at school? I've always considered that unfinished business."
Ken made a noise like a deflating balloon. Jan watched, mesmerized, as his ears turned the same shade as the cheap merlot they'd opened an hour ago. Marge stretched her arms above her head, the hem of her blouse riding up just enough to reveal the scar from her appendectomy—the one Jan had traced with her tongue twenty years ago in a haze of peach schnapps and teenage desperation.
Ken's fingers dug deeper into the couch cushion, the fabric protesting under his grip. "Unfinished—what?" His voice cracked on the last syllable. Jan couldn't help it—she laughed, the sound spilling out of her like wine from an overfilled glass. Marge's smirk widened, predatory, her eyes never leaving Jan's face.
Marge rose from her stool, walked over to Jan and kissed her—not a friendly peck but a long, deep, passionate kiss that tasted like cheap wine and decades of unsaid things. Jan's fingers spasmed around her glass before letting it tilt, the remaining liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Some detached part of her brain registered the sound of Ken choking on his own spit behind them, but Marge’s mouth was warm and insistent, her tongue sliding against Jan’s with a confidence that made her knees weak. It wasn’t the first time they’d done this, but it was the first time with an audience—and that thought sent a jolt of heat straight to Jan’s core.
Marge's fingers twisted in the hem of Jan's blouse, yanking it upward with a sharpness that sent buttons scattering across the hardwood. Jan gasped into the kiss—half protest, half exhilaration—as cool air hit her bare stomach. The fabric tore at the seams, but neither of them cared, not when Marge's nails were already raking up Jan's ribs, rediscovering old territory with feverish precision. Ken made another strangled noise, but it was drowned out by the slick sound of lips parting, by Jan's moan as Marge bit down on her lower lip just shy of painful.
Ken's cock had been reacting since Marge's fingers first tangled in Jan's hair, and now—with the sound of fabric tearing and Jan's breathless gasp—it strained painfully against his zipper. He fumbled with his belt, hands shaking so badly the buckle clattered like a dropped spoon. The couch groaned under his shifting weight as he finally freed himself, his erection springing free with an almost comical urgency. The air was too warm, too thick with wine and arousal, and Ken's pulse pounded in his ears as he watched Marge's mouth trail down Jan's throat.
Jan glanced over—just a flick of her eyes, really—and felt her breath hitch. Ken's cock stood thick and flushed against his stomach, the length of it obscenely obvious even in the dim living room light. It was bigger than her ex's by a laughable margin, the kind of difference that made her wonder if she'd ever actually been properly fucked before. The thought sent a fresh wave of heat between her thighs.
Jan's breath hitched as the image burned through her—Ken's hips slamming against her from behind while her tongue worked Marge in slow, wet circles. The fantasy was so vivid she could already feel the strain in her thighs from straddling Marge's face, the hot slap of Ken's skin against her ass as he drove into her. Her voice came out rough, half-dazed: "I want you behind me," she told Ken, then turned to Marge with a grin that was all teeth, "and you under me."
Clothing disappeared as if by magic—or more accurately, as if three pairs of hands had decided fabric was the enemy. Ken's shirt went first, ripped open by Marge with a single yank that sent buttons pinging off the lampshade. Jan's torn blouse fluttered to the floor like a wounded bird while Marge's skirt pooled around her ankles with a whisper of silk. The carpet was rough against Jan's bare knees, the fibres pressing tiny indents into her skin as she knelt between Marge's thighs, but the discomfort barely registered—not with Ken's hot breath on her neck and Marge's fingers twisting in her hair.
Ken's hands hovered over Jan's hips like he was afraid she might shatter—until Marge arched beneath them with a sharp laugh and growled, "For fuck's sake, Ken, *grip* her." His fingers dug in then, blunt and unapologetic, the pressure just shy of bruising as Jan rocked back against him. She could feel the slick heat of him pressing against her, the teasing drag of his cock along her slit making her gasp. Marge seized the moment to yank Jan forward by the hair, her other hand spreading herself wide—an unspoken command. Jan obeyed, tongue flattening against Marge in one long, filthy lick that tasted like salt and the faint chemical tang of arousal.
Ken’s fingers tightened on Jan’s hips as she rocked back against him, the friction of his cock dragging against her slick folds sending sparks up her spine. She moaned into Marge’s cunt, her tongue working in slow, deliberate circles—just the way Marge had taught her all those years ago. Marge’s thighs clamped around Jan’s head, her hips jerking upward as she let out a ragged gasp. “Fuck, you remember,” she panted, fingers twisting in Jan’s hair hard enough to make her scalp sting.
Ken's breath came in ragged bursts against the nape of Jan's neck, his fingers leaving crescent-shaped impressions in the soft flesh of her hips. The scent of sweat and sex thickened the air as he finally pushed into her—slow at first, then with a sudden, desperate snap of his hips that drew a muffled cry from Jan's lips. Her mouth never left Marge, though, her tongue still working in practiced strokes even as Ken fucked her with a rhythm that sent the coffee table skidding backward with each thrust.
The coffee table hit the wall with a dull thud, but no one cared—not when Marge was arching off the couch with a strangled cry, her thighs trembling around Jan’s head. Jan could feel Ken’s rhythm stutter behind her, his thrusts growing uneven as Marge’s fingers clenched tighter in her hair. The sharp pull sent a bolt of pleasure-pain down her spine, syncing perfectly with the deep drag of Ken’s cock inside her.
Jan's voice was raw, the words scraping her throat as she gasped them between Ken's relentless thrusts. "Fill my cunt, Ken—give me your hot cum." The demand hung in the air, thick as the musk of sweat and sex. Ken groaned, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he gripped her hips tighter, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks. Jan could feel the tension coiling in his thighs against hers, the way his breath hitched every time she clenched around him.
Ken grunted as he spent rope after rope of cum into Jan's tight cunt, his hips jerking erratically like a marionette with its strings cut. Jan gasped against Marge's thigh, her tongue stilling as the sudden flood of warmth inside her sent shockwaves up her spine. She could feel each pulse of his release, the way his cock twitched against her walls as if trying to bury itself deeper. The living room smelled like sex and sweat now, the cheap wine forgotten in favour of heavier, muskier pleasures.
Ken fell back against the couch cushions with a groan, his chest still heaving as if he'd just sprinted a mile. His fingers twitched weakly against the leather, tracing aimless patterns in the condensation from his abandoned beer. Jan watched, amused, as his eyelids fluttered shut—the picture of blissful exhaustion—before turning to Marge with a lazy grin. "You hungry?" she asked, swiping a thumb over her lower lip. "Because I've got a cream pie with your name on it."
Jan moved with the languid grace of someone who knew exactly what she wanted—and exactly how to take it. Her knees pressed into the carpet fibres still damp from spilled wine as she settled between Ken's sprawled thighs. His cock glistened in the dim light, slick with her arousal and his release, the scent of sex thick enough to taste. She didn't hesitate, didn't tease—just leaned forward and swiped her tongue along his length in one slow, deliberate stroke, savouring the salty-bitter tang of their mingled fluids.
Jan's thighs trembled as Marge's tongue pressed flat against her, lapping up the evidence of Ken's release with a hum of satisfaction. The sensation was electric—Marge's lips sealing around her swollen clit while her tongue worked deeper, chasing every drop that threatened to escape. Jan's fingers tangled in Marge's hair, not guiding, just anchoring herself as pleasure ripped through her in jagged waves. She could feel the vibrations of Marge's moan against her flesh, the way her throat convulsed as she swallowed—messy, greedy, utterly debauched.
"Save me some Marge," Jan gasped, the words punched out between Ken's fingers tightening in her hair. Marge laughed—low and throaty—from between Jan's thighs, her breath hot against oversensitive skin. Jan's hips jerked involuntarily, her heel digging into the small of Marge's back as if she could press her closer. The living room was a wreck of displaced furniture and discarded clothing, the air thick with the musk of sweat and sex and the faint metallic tang of the wine they'd abandoned hours ago.
Ken's fingers traced idle circles on Jan's bare thigh, his breathing finally steadying after what felt like hours of ragged gasps. The couch cushions were damp beneath them—some combination of sweat and spilled wine—but none of them moved to fix it. Marge lay sprawled across Ken's chest, her fingers idly twisting a lock of Jan's hair as she stared at the ceiling with a dazed grin. The silence wasn't awkward; it was the kind that settled between people who'd just rewritten the rules and found they liked the new ones better.
Jan's fingers traced idle patterns on Marge's knee, her voice still husky from exertion. "Well, my fantasy is done with," she said, lips quirking at the understatement. The wine glass she'd abandoned earlier lay tipped on its side, a crimson stain spreading across the coffee table like a crime scene. "Do you have one, Marge?"
Marge’s grin widened, slow and wicked, as she rolled onto her side to face Jan. Her fingers trailed down Jan’s arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "Oh, darling," she purred, "mine’s a bit more… complicated." Ken groaned from beneath them, his palm slapping over his face in mock exasperation, but Jan caught the way his fingers spread just enough to peek.
Marge's fingers paused at Jan's wrist, her thumb pressing into the pulse point there—hard enough to feel the rapid flutter beneath the skin. "Complicated how?" Jan asked, though the glint in Marge's eyes told her she already knew. Marge exhaled through her nose, a slow, deliberate sound, before propping herself up on one elbow. Her free hand trailed down Ken's chest, nails scraping lightly through the sparse hair there, stopping just shy of his softening cock. "Well," she murmured, "I've always wanted to watch you take him... *completely*."
Jan's pulse jumped under Marge's thumb. She could feel Ken's sudden stillness beneath them, the way his breath hitched when Marge's fingers ghosted lower. The air thickened again, charged with something darker now—a promise edged in teeth.
Ken made a choked noise as Marge's fingers curled around him, her thumb swiping over his tip where he was already starting to stiffen again. Jan watched, fascinated, as his cock twitched in Marge's grip—the way his hips jerked involuntarily off the couch despite his exhaustion. Marge's smile was all sharp edges when she turned back to Jan. "You remember how I used to like watching?" she murmured, her voice syrup-slow. "Back when we'd sneak those videos from your brother's stash?"
Jan's throat went dry as Marge's words curled around her—like smoke, like a dare. The memory hit her all at once: stolen afternoons in Jan's bedroom, knees pressed into shag carpeting while grainy VHS tapes played on the tiny TV. Marge had always been the one to angle the screen just so, her breath quickening whenever the camera lingered on a woman's face as she took a cock deeper than seemed possible.
Marge's fingers tightened around Ken's cock, her thumb smearing a bead of moisture across his tip with deliberate precision. "I want to see you choke on it," she said, her voice low and rough as gravel. The words sent a shudder through Jan—half arousal, half something darker she couldn't name. Ken made a strangled noise beneath them, his hips twitching upward as if pulled by invisible strings.
Jan exhaled—slow, deliberate—and rolled onto her knees, the carpet's rough fibres biting into her skin. She caught Ken's gaze, saw the flicker of apprehension there before he swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "You heard her," Jan murmured, fingertips trailing up Ken's thigh, feeling the muscle twitch beneath her touch. "Looks like you're going down my throat."
Ken's breath hitched as Jan's fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, her grip firm enough to make him gasp. The heady scent of their earlier coupling still clung to his skin, mingling with the salt of fresh sweat as Jan leaned in, her breath hot against his length. Marge shifted beside them, her knee pressing into Ken's ribs as she angled herself for a better view—the director of this filthy little tableau.
Ken's cock twitched against Jan's lips as she exhaled slowly—warm breath ghosting over slick skin—before she flattened her tongue and took him in one slow, deliberate stroke. The taste of herself and Ken's earlier release was sharp on her tongue, an intimate cocktail that made her pulse jump. Marge's fingers tightened in Jan's hair, not guiding, just *claiming*, as Jan worked her mouth down Ken's length with practiced ease.
Ken's fingers scrabbled at the couch cushions as Jan's throat opened around him, the wet heat swallowing him deeper than he'd thought possible. His hips jerked involuntarily—a reflexive thrust that made Jan gag—and Marge's laughter curled through the air like smoke. "Easy, tiger," she murmured, her nails scraping down Jan's spine. "Don't ruin the show."
Ken's groan vibrated through Jan's skull as she took him deeper, her nose brushing the wiry hair at his base. Saliva pooled at the corners of her stretched lips—messy, obscene—and she revelled in the shudder that racked Ken's thighs when she swallowed around him. Marge's fingers twisted tighter in her hair, the burn of it syncing perfectly with the ache in Jan's jaw.
Ken's thighs trembled violently as Jan pulled back just enough to drag her teeth lightly along his length—not enough to hurt, just enough to make his breath stutter in a way that vibrated against her tongue. Marge's approving hum buzzed against Jan's shoulder blades, her fingers tightening possessively in Jan's hair. "That's it," Marge murmured, her voice thick with arousal. "Make him *feel* it."
Ken's hands finally moved from their death-grip on the couch cushions to tangle in Jan's hair—not guiding, just holding on as if she were the only thing keeping him from floating away. His hips twitched upward in tiny, involuntary jerks, each one forcing another inch down Jan's throat until tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. The salt of them mingled with the musk of Ken's skin as Marge's fingers traced the damp trails down Jan's cheeks with something like reverence.
Without warning Ken exploded—not in anger, but in a ragged cry that seemed to tear itself from his throat as his hips jerked off the couch. His fingers clenched convulsively in Jan’s hair, holding her in place as his cock pulsed against the back of her throat, each spurt hitting with the force of a gunshot in the quiet room. Jan swallowed instinctively, her throat working around him as Marge’s fingernails bit crescent moons into her shoulder blades.
The living room ceiling spun above Ken in lazy circles as he collapsed back onto the couch, his limbs boneless. Jan pulled back with a wet pop, her lips swollen and glistening. A stray drop trailed down her chin—Ken reached out to catch it with trembling fingers, but Marge was faster. She leaned in, tongue darting out to lick it away with a hum of satisfaction.
24日前
