The desk

Nate asked me on a Sunday, barefoot in the kitchen, if I would say it out loud for another man and let him listen. Not a hint. The real words. I told him I would if he stayed in the room. Brooks is thirty-four and Nate likes him. I like the way Brooks goes still when I start a sentence. We set it for a weeknight when the laptop could stay shut.

I sat at the desk in the green sweater, curly red hair up and already falling down. Shoes off. Stockings on. The notebook was closed too. I did not need notes. Nate took the side chair. Brooks leaned on the desk edge until I told him to kneel between my feet. I put two fingers under his chin and said, so Nate could hear every word, that I wanted Brooks's mouth on my cunt through the stocking first, just pressure, until I said skin.

Brooks did it. The nylon dragged sweet and too much over my cunt. I kept talking. I told Nate how it felt, heat and scratch, my clit aching, my sweater sticking to my ribs. I told Brooks to roll the stocking down my right leg and leave the left one on. He did. I opened my knees and said now, and his tongue met my cunt. I swore. Nate's cock was hard under his own hand and his eyes were wet at the corners in that good, overwhelmed way. I told him he was doing so well, staying, listening, exactly as he had asked.

I talked Brooks through it. Higher. Slower. Two fingers in my cunt, not three. I said when I was close and I said Nate's name on purpose. I came with my heel, the bare one, against Brooks's back and my voice breaking into plain filth, fuck, there, do not stop. After, I pulled Brooks up and kissed him, then turned the chair and took Nate's cock in my hand while I described, stroke by stroke, what Brooks's tongue had done to my cunt. Nate came fast, gasping, thanking me, cum on my fingers. I kissed his knuckles. Brooks stood behind me, a warm hand on my shoulder, and I told them both we were not finished. The left stocking was still on. I wanted it ruined next, and I wanted them both to hear me ask to get fucked.