The double seemed more at ease after that first orgasm. She still snuck peeks of me in the shower, still brushed a little too close when we passed in the lab, but she was far less aggressive. If the double seemed like she was growing too restless—like the time Clara caught her sitting on my desk, legs spread before me—then my wife would invite her into our bedroom, tie me to a chair, and they’d take turns riding me until dinner was ready.
Always taking turns. “There used to be more of him,” my wife told her one day.
But Clara seemed unwilling to engage sexually with her double, except through me—despite my best efforts. If I placed Clara’s hand between the legs of her double, she’d jerk it away. If their breasts mistakenly touched during foreplay, my wife would cup her palm over her nipple. If their tongues met while sharing my cock, Clara would immediately stand, kiss me deeper than she had all week, and rub my fingers against her clit.
The closest I could get was to spy on them after a shopping trip. Clara used her double as a mannequin. Peeping through our bedroom keyhole, I watched my wife’s double try on outfit after outfit—hot pink cycling shorts, hemp halter tops with cutoff jeans, one-piece bathing suits, floor-length nighties—and each time Clara would make a few adjustments, tug the fabric this way or that, and decide whether or not the clothes should be returned. But they never touched. Even in so intimate a setting, clothes flying, they never kissed.
How could she resist? Even I succumbed once when I shouldn’t have. Her double and I found ourselves in the kitchen late one night, getting a glass of water. She wore the same pink push up and panties and kept glancing toward my boxers as she drank. She spilled a bit on her chest, and instead of leaving right then, I let her pull me against her to dab the water with my shirt. I kissed her, remembering the garden, this time her mouth cold from the ice, and unable to walk away at this point, I let her pump my cock between her breasts. The rest of the night, lying next to Clara in bed, I worried about the morning. Worried that she’d wake and notice my stain on her double’s bra.
* * *
On her way home from work one day, I heard Clara flirting with the fireman on our stoop. He complimented her dress, a professional gray number which was still cut tight around her backside, and she complimented his t-shirt, then laughed and said that had sounded stupid, then added that the t-shirt did, in fact, show off his arms. After closing the front door, she asked if it would be all right if she took a long shower. I shrugged and she hurried to the bedroom while removing her earrings. I went back to my book.
But a few moments later, her plans evidently changed, Clara returned. Her dress unzipped completely, she grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the bedroom.
I had Clara on her back when the double entered. I stood at the edge of the bed, Clara’s legs wrapped around my waist, as her double watched. Clara’s eyes were closed, her head arched back, so she didn’t see her double stand against me, sliding one hand across my chest. Clara didn’t see me squeeze the double’s ass and pull her closer for a kiss. Clara didn’t see me whisper something into her double’s ear.
The first thing Clara noticed was a pair of delicate fingers sauntering across her ribs. She opened her eyes to see her double on her knees on the bed next to her. The bob cut rustled against her ears each time I thrusted against the mattress.
Clara looked as if she might say something, but instead she closed her eyes again and tightened her legs around my hips.
Then she felt a palm, barely brushing the hairs of her skin, hover northward between her breasts. Clara’s shoulders quivered, I could feel her body tense, but otherwise she didn’t react. She only ran her hands along my arms and held my hands firmly against her pelvis.
“Fuck me, Harry,” she said. “Don’t stop fucking me.”
Then a mouth. I watched her double lean forward. She held Clara’s chin, tilted her head, and kissed gently across her collar bone, then along her neck. This time Clara did protest. She slunk her neck away and removed the hand from her chin. Instead she pulled my hand from her hip and brought it to her mouth, sucking hungrily on my finger.
“Fuck me, Harry,” she said. “Give me your big, long cock.”
I reached over to caress the double’s bottom, gave her a little nudge, then the double leaned lower, wrapping her lips around my wife’s nipple.
Clara’s eyes shot open. “Harry,” she said.
“Do you want me to stop,” I asked.
“No,” she said, tightening her legs.
“Do you want me to take back my cock?”
“No, please no.”
“Go ahead,” I told the double.
I took Clara’s wrists, pinning them against the mattress. She squirmed a bit, but then I slowed my thrusting, threatened to pull out, and she gave in, tightening her legs around me. Her double set her hands against Clara’s stomach. She let her breasts dangle against Clara’s, which bounced in time with her double’s hair. Then she kissed Clara. She kissed her slowly, much slower than the rhythm I’d set. She kissed her without moving. She kissed her as she’d kissed me in the garden.
I felt Clara responding. I felt her squeeze against my cock, felt her grinding against me in a new way, more elliptically, but no less urgently. I released her wrists and, unsure what to do with them, Clara stretched them awkwardly above her head along the mattress, then brought one down to play with her hair, twirling a few strands around a finger, then thought better of it and slid her fingers through the hair of her double instead.
“Should I stop,” I asked again?
Clara shook her head, tightened her legs, but never took her mouth away from the lips of her double.
As I watched, I took Clara’s legs from around my waist. I turned her onto her side and held her legs together. A horizontal side saddle, as it were. I never pulled out, and her double never pulled away, rotating with Clara so their mouths stayed locked. From here, lying on their sides, I watched their tongues stir together. I watched their arms entangle, their bodies press against each other, their breasts rise toward their throats. I watched Clara hold her double’s lower back and watched her double push the hair back from Clara’s face. I watched her double reach between her own legs, eager but unable to touch her pelvis to Clara’s. As I held my wife’s thigh, my cock squeezed tight between her legs, I watched their exquisite naked bodies, identical in every detail, their complimentary contours, one nipple hardening against the other, one glance, a smile against its mirror, an ephemeral giggle followed by an ephemeral whimper, the luring harmony of their ravishing form—I knew I couldn’t last much longer.
“I’m going to cum,” I said.
Clara reached up with one hand and searched blindly, her face still pressed to her double’s. She halfheartedly found my abs with her fingertips, but, lingering too long for me to handle, I pulled my cock from between her legs and came across the side of her thigh.
I held myself as I caught my breath. I rubbed my wife’s lower leg. I leaned down to give her shoulder a peck.
But all of this seemed to go unnoticed. Clara and her double continued as if I’d never been involved. In fact, with Clara’s legs free, the two of them became even more entwined. Clara rubbed against her double’s leg and the double pulled Clara’s thigh up to her hip, her hand disappearing somewhere between their desperate, writhing loins. I went to get a towel for Clara, but by the time I returned, my cum was already forgotten, smeared across their shared body by the oblivious act of love.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/10523xn/a_wife_for_all_seasons_part_6_scifi_mff_all_over