The sofa

Diane warmed the oil in her palms before she touched me. I was on the office sofa, shoes off, coral blouse open, maps a soft blur behind the lamp. Arthur sat at my feet. We had said at dinner, clearly, that the sofa night was yes, and that massage could stay massage if I wanted it to. I did not want it to stay there. I told them so after the first pass down my calves, when my body had decided and my mouth caught up.

Arthur rubbed my feet, thumbs in the arch. Diane worked up my shins, my knees, my thighs, asking at the inner muscle before she went higher. I said higher. Her hands are patient. She spread oil over my hips and stomach and breasts, not rushing, until I was shining and restless. Arthur kissed my knee and said he was glad we were clear-headed. I pulled him up by the shirt and kissed him for that.

I spread my legs on the sofa and Diane settled between them. She massaged my cunt with oiled fingers, slow circles, then licked my cunt once the oil was wiped away with a cloth, because she is practical even when she is devoted. Arthur stroked his cock and told me my face was the best part, how I stopped performing and just wanted. I came on her tongue, long and shaky, one heel on the floor. Then I asked Arthur to fuck me while Diane kept kissing my mouth. He fucked my cunt, careful of the angle on a narrow sofa, deep enough, my leg over his elbow. Diane whispered that I was beautiful and that she loved watching his cock work, gentle and filthy at once. I came again around him. He pulled out and left his cum on my stomach, our agreement for upholstery, and Diane wiped me with a warm cloth.

After, Arthur washed his hands and brought my shoes over without making me stand yet. Diane capped the bottle. I lay there open-bloused and unashamed, a travel agent who had finally gone somewhere that did not need a map. I told them I loved them. They said it back, overlapping, ordinary, perfect.