I saw her leave his room again the next morning. Again she carried an empty tray, but this time she wore a baggy tshirt and flannel pajama pants, feeling, perhaps, a bit too ogled lately.
“Oh,” she said as I approached the study. “I think I left my panties in there, could you grab them?” She stuck her tongue out at me and headed for the stairs.
I apologized, and though she didn’t seem interested in mending any wounds at first, our work was largely on autopilot until the organics matured. Which gave us a lot of free time throughout that week. We went our own ways, reading or exercising in different wings of the house, but she also came to me occasionally, bored, begging to play cards or twenty questions or never have I ever.
“Never have I ever given head in a public restroom,” I said, and Madison rolled her eyes, lowered a finger, and told me to watch my mouth.
We took a paddle boat out one morning, her in the yellow-checkered bikini, the sun warming her thighs as she paddled. We played tennis on the professor’s private court. We rode bicycles down the first floor corridor. And eventually Madison removed the towels from her mirror.
I still saw her leave the professor’s bedroom each morning with an empty coffee tray. Rising at such an early hour, tasked with such remedial labor, she seemed less and less concerned with hiding her nighttime attire. As she left his room one morning, closing the door behind her, I saw that her t-shirt was mistakenly tucked into the back of her white cotton panties, which were indeed mostly transparent.
“I see London, I see France,” I whispered as she passed, and she sleepily jerked the t-shirt from her underwear.
It was that morning that the professor asked me to make a few changes to the DNA.
“Nothing major, just a few tweaks that need to be done before the organics mature,” he said. “Always part of the plan.”
I input the changes, with only a few days until completion.
Late that night – after midnight, at least – I was woken by the phone ringing. I sat up to glance through the mirror, and in the faint moonlight I saw Madison in her bed, propped up on her elbows holding the receiver to her ear. She stayed that way for a long time, her hair hanging over her bare shoulders. then she rolled onto her back. The receiver still in one hand, I thought I saw the other moving rhythmically beneath her sheet.
Author: Arthur_Brash
Forever Hung (Part 3) [sci-fi] [slow burn] [all characters over 21] [MF] [teasing]
“It’s fine. Annoying but typical,” Madison said in the lab the next morning. “Part of having an older male boss.”
“He ask you to do anything else with your young hands?”
“Like you asked the other night?”
I ignored her, studying my organics beneath a microscope.
“Let me see,” she said after a moment. I leaned back from the eyepiece and Madison squeezed herself between me and the table.
“Oh, here,” she said. Still wearing my sweater, she pulled it over her head, the shirt beneath briefly sliding up her bare abdomen before falling back to her waist. She leaned over to peer into the microscope, again pressing her ass against my lap.
“Are these growing like they’re meant to?” she asked, adjusting the viewfinder.
“Getting there.” I placed my hands on her waist and slipped them just below her shirt, caressing the midriff she had quickly flashed.
I felt her ass wriggle against me.
“How long?” she asked. “Until they’re ready I mean.”
“Days,” I said. “Plenty of time.
She spun around and rubbed her hands along my biceps as I held her shirt above her bellybutton.
“Did you watch me undress last night?”
“I would never.”
“Good. I was wearing very bright underwear. Electric orange. Didn’t cover much skin.”
“What about now?” I stretched her waistband toward me, trying to peer in.
“Very boring. Cheap cotton. You can probably see right through it.”
She unbuttoned my pants, unzipped them, and felt the fabric of my boxer-briefs between her fingertips.
“Yes. Much thinner than yours.”
Then she zipped my pants, refastened the button, and pushed me gently away.
“Good to know I don’t have to worry about covering my mirror,” she said.
Which was of course exactly what she did. When I finished my shower that night, I found her side of the mirror veiled by a piece of fabric.
But it was only a bedsheet, too thin to block the light completely. It created a gauzy, mysterious glow, as if her entire room was filled with an early morning fog. There I saw her silhouette rise from her own four-post bed. Then she stretched, a soft warm blur, and lifted her hair above her head before letting it fall. Whatever she wore, she slipped it from her shoulders, and I could make out two watercolor blurs of purple across the peach of her skin. She stretched again – I heard her moan faintly through the wall – and then one of the purple blurs, the higher of the two, fell to the floor.
Then I heard a phone ring. Not the tinny ring of a cellphone, but the room-piercing bells of an old rotary landline. Like the one next to my bed, but that one was quiet.
It came from Madison’s room. Her silhouette, climbing into bed, stopped and lifted the receiver. I heard her ask “hello,” expecting, perhaps, me. Then I heard a “yes sir,” “of course, sir,” a short laugh, a “no trouble at all, sir,” then a “no trouble at all, Harry.”
Then she hung up, and soon after that her light went out.
I must have fallen asleep, but I could have sworn I heard two voices in her room later that night, one shushing the other.
On my way to the professor’s study in the morning, I saw Madison exit his bedroom carrying an empty tray. She wore my sweatshirt again, which covered just enough of the top of her thighs that I couldn’t tell if she was wearing anything underneath. Her hair looked a bit mussed.
“Early morning?” I asked.
“Coffee duty again,” she shrugged.
“Hmm,” I said. “Are you going to join us in the study?”
“I’ll meet you in the lab, I just want to change first.”
I raised an eyebrow and watched her walk down the hallway, curious if I’d see a flash of the purple panties or bare bum peek beneath the sweater, rather than shorts, but I never got a clear answer.
“Morning Charlie,” the professor said, easing into his desk chair with a cup of coffee. Did he seem especially chipper? “How’s the transistor coming?”
“Early stages, but it’s coming along.”
“Excellent,” he said. “I’ve heard from Madison that things are shaping up nicely on her end, as well.”
“What I’ve seen checks out,” I said.
He took a sip of coffee and nodded appreciatively to himself.
“Early stages, but probably the right time to introduce the DNA sample,” he said.
“I believe so, sir. Will that be yours or do we have someone less personally invested?”
“Oh no, I hate to burden others with these kind of experiments. Mine will —” he searched around his desktop, then looked toward his bedroom door. “Damn,” he said. “One moment.”
Taking his cane from the side of the desk, he shuffled step by step to the door and, once open, step by step toward the far wall. I scanned his room from where I stood, and while I thought I saw a copy of Madame Bovary on his bed, I couldn’t be sure.
He opened a small fridge built into a dresser, put something in his jacket pocket, then made his way to me.
“I’m sorry, I hope you don’t mind,” he said, and he gave me, from his pocket, a vial filled with a milky white substance. “I hate to be crude, but I hate needles”
Madison was wearing skinny jeans and a white knit sweater when I found her in the lab, leaning over her own microscope to check the progress of her organics.
“Can you sequence this?” I said, slipping the vial into her back pocket. “If you haven’t already.”
She tried to bend to glance at the object in her pocket, then took the vial with her hand and, after staring at it for a perplexed moment, grimaced.
“Could you?”
“Not a chance,” I said.
She took the vial to the other side of the lab and I went to work with my microscope.
A few minutes later, Madison sat on the table next to my sample and crossed her legs. “When, pray tell, would I have sequenced that?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, Miss Lounds?”
“You said if I haven’t already. When would I have?”
“I don’t know what you do with your time,” I said. “I heard you take a phone call from the professor and this morning you’re leaving his bedroom.”
“Because he called and asked me to bring him coffee this morning.”
“Then there’s voices in your room at night.”
“Voices? I got off the phone and went to sleep.”
“Just laid there all night?”
“I spent awhile waiting for you to come over, but yes.”
I considered the possibility that I’d made a mistake, then tried to go back to my microscope, but Madison leaned forward and looked me in the eye.
“Were you implying, Charlie, that I somehow helped collect that sample?”
I tried to think of what to say, but taking too long, she got up and stormed back to work. When I went back to my room that night, it looked like there were two thick towels hanging over Madison’s side of the mirror.
Forever Hung (Part 2) [sci-fi] [slow burn] [all characters over 21] [MF] [teasing]
I went for a quick walk around the grounds after dinner, a chance to feel the salt air blowing off the reeds. Entering my darkened room, I saw a strange light coming from what I thought was the wall, but was in fact the mirror, and which was in fact no mirror at all. Through the glass, I could see into Madison’s room. And in it, Madison. She placed her earrings on the bedside table. She unpinned her hair and shook it loose. She reached up the front slit of her gown to pull down her panty hose.
I turned away, took off my clothes, and climbed in bed, determined to tell her about the mirror in the morning.
Just as I closed my eyes, there was another knock on my door. I opened it to see Madison in the light blue tank top and frilly cherry panties.
“I dont plan to make a habit of this, but this house is enormous, and…” she said. “Do you mind if I stay with you just tonight, Charlie?”
I said of course and let her in, forgetting the light still shining through the mirror. She crossed her arms, examining the glass.
“You can see into my room?” Madison asked.
“I planned to tell you in the morning,” I said. “I didn’t look”
“That’s not from watching me undress?” She asked, pointing toward the bulge in my boxer briefs.
“That’s from watching you walk in here,” I insisted.
She went back to studying the mirror.
“Maybe this used to be his room,” I said. “And yours is where he always put the young coeds.”
“He’s not that creepy,” she said, slapping my shoulder.
“Such stately standards, Miss Lounds,” I said in my poshest accent. “He just calls me Charlie, you know.”
We fooled around a little that night. Made out in bed, groped at each other beneath the sheets, but Madison stopped short of anything serious. She fell asleep that night, intentionally or not, with her ass pressed into my lap.
Forever Hung (Part 1) [sci-fi] [slow burn] [all characters over 21]
My professor summoned me to his home, a grand estate on the marshland of the sound. He invited grad students for dinner occasionally, but not since his accident last year, a motorcycle mishap that left him with a severe and worsening limp.
“Charlie!” He greeted me at the door, only holding himself upright with the help of a silver-tipped cane. He led me, fast as his cane could carry him, through the house. We walked tile by tile down a cavernous hallway, step by tortuous step up a grand central staircase, until, twenty minutes later, we reached his study, the walls lined with awards and honorary diplomas, all citing his work in biochemical innovation or applied neuromechanics. Out of breath, Professor Harry opened the lid of a globe bar and pulled, from the ice, a plastic water bottle.
In the corner, near the professor’s desk, there stood a life-size marble statue which, strangely, wore a high-slit, backless gown.
“Venus?” I asked.
“My darling wife Clara, may she rest,” he said, hobbling toward it. “Her face, her exact proportions. Her nose, her shoulders, her breasts.” He cupped a hand against the statue’s ass, a far off look in his eyes. A basket full of women’s clothes sat on the floor nearby.
“I need your help,” the professor said at last. “With a new project.”
The work was for credit, though it also included room and board, he said. A good opportunity. He assured me it would mark a landmark advancement in biochemical engineering, a way to make a name for myself.
“This leg, I can’t get as much done as I used to,” he said. “But not for much longer if we’re successful.”
“Some sort of surgical procedure?” I asked, wary about the prospects of such a self-serving venture.
He shook his head.
“We’ll never have eternal life, nor should we,” he said. “But why not eternal youth for the living?”
The professor said we’d need one other grad student. He recommended Madison, but he left the decision up to me since I was to take the lead.
Then, too tired for the return trek to the front door, he let me see myself out even though I never officially accepted the job.
A Wife For All Seasons, Part 8 (Final) [sci-fi] [MFF, all over 30]
“I’m just not sure it even counts as cheating,” Clara said as I lowered the lid on her double’s hibernation bath.
“Forty-five orgasms,” I mumbled. “You’re going to overload her. What’s she up to now, a hundred and three?”
Clara rolled her eyes. “You didn’t check?”
“We had a rule,” I said.
“I know, but wasn’t that about me not sleeping with your double? Or you sleeping with mine?” she said. “How can I cheat on you with myself?”
“That was the rule!” I was incredulous.
“You said it yourself, I’m incredibly sexy. I resisted for awhile, but you kept pushing me.”
“That’s what a threesome is. Everyone’s involved.”
“Not when it was me and three of you,” she said. “Then it was all hands on me.”
“Well I certainly never heard you complain about that.”
“You couldn’t be content with two women fucking you senseless, you just had to see us kiss.”
Even in my rage, that memory—I had no regrets.
“You never played with one of your doubles?” Clara asked.
“Of course not.”
“You never played with one of their cocks a little bit? Never put one in your mouth?”
“You’re being crude again, Clara.”
To which she made a sound that can only be described as a guffaw.
“I think you’re sexually repressed,” she said.
To which I guffawed.
“I’ve been involved in the orgasms of at least twelve threesomes,” I said.
“Such a repressed thing to say.”
“Just this month!”
“But always on your terms. God forbid you touch a dick.”
“I could touch a dick.”
“God forbid you suck a dick.”
“I could suck a dick, it’d be easy to suck a dick.”
Clara laughed. “Well too bad it’s just Harry and his wives now.”
“Find me a dick,” I shouted. “Find me a dick and I’ll suck it while I fuck you and he can jizz all over my butt or wherever.”
And that’s how I wound up agreeing to a threesome with the fireman next door.
A Wife For All Seasons, Part 7 [sci-fi] [MFF, all over 30]
Clara and her double seemed inseparable after that night. They watched TV beneath a blanket together. They read Chilean poetry together. They drank lemonade from a shared straw on the patio together. One Saturday Clara went shopping, but she brought home clothes for her double to keep, as well. I watched through the keyhole: the double wore blue jeans, studying her butt in the mirror, as Clara buttoned a white linen shirt for her. Clara left the top three buttons undone and tied the hems into a knot above her double’s belly button. They exchanged words I couldn’t hear, giggled, shushed each other, then I saw my wife hook a finger over the double’s waistband, pull her toward her, and unbutton the jeans.
Sometimes they showered together. I raised concerns about the integrity of our doubles rule—no sex with a double unless it’s both of us—but she insisted it was nice to have platonic help washing her back.
I was certainly included. I frequently found myself in some new game. I came home one day to a pitch-black house. Marco Polo, Clara said, and as I followed her voice, bumping into tables, I’d occasionally feel something against my foot. A tank top, a t-shirt, socks, a pair of shorts, a bra, a pair of leggings. When I eventually found them, they were both naked in a closet, making out against our winter coats.
Another night, I found a card leaning against a flower vase in the foyer. You are cordially invited to an evening in la bibliothèque. A tuxedo was hung on a door handle.
Clara stood by the lit fireplace in a backless gown slit up to her waist. Her hair was pinned beneath a head scarf and she wore sunglasses she didn’t need. She stepped toward me and adjusted my bow tie.
“Who am I?” she asked.
Before I could answer, her double—or was it Clara?—entered wearing the same gown, the same scarf, the same glasses. She felt the top edge of my cumberbund.
“Who am I?” this Clara asked.
One held a finger to my lips. They both sat on their knees and looked up at me as they removed their sunglasses. One unzipped my pants, then the other hooked her glasses into my fly and pulled me closer.The slight sign of a smirk, their painted red lips. Each gown came to a point just below their back dimples; firelight flickered against their skin.
“You only get one guess,” one of the Clara’s said.
They took turns performing. One Clara ran her tongue along the underside of my cock, the other licked along the right side, then the left. One Clara took me into her mouth in my entirety before tightening her lips, then slowly withdrawing. The other started with the tip, sucked a bit more of me into her mouth, pulled away, sucked in a bit more, pulled away, easing in my full length. One Clara kept her eyes closed, as if relishing her own talent. The other locked her eyes with mine, daring me to finish.
“Which one of us is your wife?” they asked.
I apparently guessed wrong—though they never revealed who was who—and for the rest of the night, as punishment, I was only allowed to watch.
Then on the weekend I woke from my nap and found them asleep beneath a blanket in the garden. They wore matching green floral bras, lovely amongst the rosemary, but—I lifted the blanket to check—no panties.
Unbeknownst to Clara, I discovered a way to determine how many orgasms her double had experienced. I maintained a running log of her double’s brain waves, so looking back through that history, I could look for specific erratic patterns that indicated sexual spikes. By my count, I’d been present for—indeed, often responsible for—roughly a dozen orgasms. So, per our rule, I expected to see roughly a dozen sexual spikes. When I ran the numbers, reran the numbers, then ran the numbers a third time for good measure, I discovered fifty-seven spikes.
I confronted Clara with my calculations, explained the science, my method. I said I’d had my suspicions, but now I had evidence. Numbers don’t lie. Charts don’t lie—the ladies of the house, my love and our concubine, were having an affair.
Then Clara asked if my calculations took masturbation into account, and I had to confess that I had not considered this.
She stormed away to the bath.
Still, the number haunted me. Fifty-seven. Forty-five orgasms I’d been unaware of. Forty-five orgasms achieved without need, at the very least, of me. Forty-five orgasms alone, I was to believe? With such ready and able roommates?
I came home early one day, burst through the front door, but only found them playing canasta. I made a show of going to the hardware store then doubled back after ten minutes, but my wife was merely straining pasta as her double stirred a sauce. I installed a motion-sensitive camera in the garden, but caught only blurred photos of birds.
One afternoon, when I’d all but accepted Clara’s word, I was taking an empty banana crate to the garage when I noticed a thick layer of fog coating the windows of our car. Peering through, I was certain I saw the color of skin against the vinyl seats. I tore open the back door and there laid my wife and her sweat-drenched double, moaning into each other’s cunts.
“Clara!” I shouted. “In my Buick?”
A Wife For All Seasons, Part 6 [sci-fi] [MFF, all over 30]
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.
A Wife For All Seasons, Part 5 [sci-fi] [MFF, all over 30]
Dinner was awkward that night, each of us silently stirring our soup.
“How could I know?” I said. “It’s not my fault you’re so sexy.”
Clara took a bite of bread, demonstrably unimpressed by my attempt at flattery.
“It’s lucky I don’t have a twin sister, you’d never keep your hands off her.”
“She never kept her hands off me,” I stressed, another failed tactic.
We each took a few quiet sips.
“You remember how it was with my doubles in the beginning,” I said.
“I do, I still think about it sometimes,” Clara said. “Two big, strong men with you stuck at work?”
“My point,” I said, “is that she’s going to be this way until I give her what she wants.” I dipped a piece of bread. “Until we give her what she wants.”
Clara sighed, but knew I was right.
* * *
On Saturday night I spread a white fur rug before the fireplace. I arranged a few throw pillows around the edge, lit the gas logs, and laid back with only a short towel tied around my waist. I picked up a book while I waited, my wife’s copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, but found myself rereading the same line six times.
Soon they entered from the darkened hallway. My wife’s silken black robe hung open, a white lace bustier and matching thong underneath. Her double wore red, a skintight, strapless babydoll, transparent across the stomach. They each wore a garter—one white, one red—clipped to black thigh-high stockings.
But more striking than the lingerie was their hair. My wife’s draped across her chest, a few wavy strands nearly tickling her ribs. But the double’s hung straight, shorn just above the shoulders, and she had bangs which—I dared not say—made her look slightly younger.
“No more misunderstandings,” Clara said.
Their high heels clicked across the floor. Clara let her robe fall. They crossed the rug, then knelt, these beautiful women, before me where I lied.
The double stared ardently at my towel, and Clara, noticing, leaned forward to unwrap me. She let each end of the towel fall against my sides, then sat back, both women watching me grow. When her double stretched a hand toward my bare lap, my wife stopped her, shook her head, and insisted on watching until it was clear I couldn’t grow any harder.
“You want us?” my wife said at last.
“Very much so,” I nodded.
Clara bit her lip and looked at me as if reconsidering. Then she began to undo her bustier one button at a time, her cleavage adjusting slightly with each shift in support. The final button undone, she let the bustier fall to the rug behind her.
She turned to her double. She slipped her fingers inside the top edge of the babydoll and began to roll it down her double’s body. A red lace thong waited underneath.
Clara sat up on her knees. Her double did the same. They turned toward each other—for a moment I wondered if they might touch or kiss—but then kept turning, facing away from me. They both hooked their fingers through either side of their thongs, then slipped the threadbare fabric over their rears and down their thighs. I resisted the urge to touch myself. I waited patiently as each thong lingered briefly between their legs on the way down, snagged by a hidden wetness there.
In only their garters and stockings, Clara and her double leaned forward, resting their breasts against the fur rug as they held their hips aloft with their knees.
I luxuriated on my luck for a moment; their bottoms glowed bronze in the firelight.
“I want your cock first,” Clara said.
I crawled forward. I took the red garter in my hands and held Clara’s double firmly in place as I ran my tongue along the length of her pussy, then higher, between her ass cheeks. She shivered, jerked forward, but then settled back awaiting more.
I did the same with my wife. I held her white garter, gave her ass a quick nibble, then licked, more slowly, up the length of her vales. She shuddered more deeply than her double and backed her ass against my tongue.
Kneeling on one knee, I held my erection between Clara’s legs. She reached back to guide me in, but my cock found her so wet, entered so suddenly, so completely, that Clara needed both hands on the rug to keep her balance. I grabbed her garter again, bunched it into one hand against the small of her back, and pulled her back and forth against me. Back and forth, back and forth. Clara stretched her arms along the rug above her head and kept her body limp, occasionally arching her back lower to take me deeper.
Then she held her ass back against me steadily to slow me down.
“Now her,” Clara said.
I held my breath as I pulled out and knelt behind Clara’s double, her body shaking slightly in anticipation. I took her red garter belt in both hands and, finding her just as wet as my wife, pulled her onto my soaking cock.
Unlike Clara, her double stiffened, lifting herself onto all fours as I pounded against her. Her short bob cut bounced in a way I’d never seen. The exposed back of her neck, her naked shoulder blades—I thrusted faster, then slower, then faster again, just to see the effect on her hair.
“Now me,” Clara said.
We took turns in this way for nearly half an hour. Throughout, I saw that Clara never looked at her double. She kept her eyes toward the fire until it was her turn, at which time she was too distracted to notice much of anything.
Clara was the first to cum. Then her double. As I came, a burst of white which shot across their backs before settling into a soft drizzle over their raised bottoms, Clara turned to face her double for the first time. Each wiped the sweat from the other’s brow.
A Wife For All Seasons, Part 4 [sci-fi] [MFF, all over 30]
I couldn’t help but feel this was a step backward in my research. I’d spent months perfecting the cranial transistor, the key component for control of multiple bodies, a technology with so many practical applications outside of the bedroom. Military applications, educational applications. Medicine, probably. And now I was stripping away this accomplishment to make a glorified clone.
I lugged crate after crate of bananas into my lab, dropping them into the bath’s absorption chamber. High potassium levels, after all, had disrupted the transistor in the past. I checked and rechecked the double’s brain wave patterns, digitally decoupling them from those of my wife—a laborious process that required working lobe by lobe. I programmed new personality traits into her biochemical software. After a week of tinkering, I reached into the hibernation bath and, as clinically as possible, massaged the double’s left breast.
“Clara, darling, can you feel that?” I shouted.
“Yes,” she shouted back. “Please stop.”
Was this even feasible, then? To sever a connection with an active double? I pondered the question for hours, took too many dinners at my desk. But new ideas are hard to come by—I called my grocer and asked when they expected their next banana shipment.
I decided to clear my head in our back garden. I sat back in my favorite sling chair, listened to the lilting house sparrows, the goldfinches, and soon fell asleep.
Sometime later I felt Clara sit sideways across my lap, the weight of her delicate frame.
“Clara, darling, I’m hitting another low.”
She caressed my neck, led her fingertips across my stubble.
“Am I trying to accomplish the impossible?”
I wrapped my arms around her; she wasn’t wearing any clothes.
“Am I a fool?”
She squirmed lightly against my lap.
“Am I a bad scientist?”
She kissed me. I felt my bottom lip grow wet between hers. I felt our top lips bend and curve against each other. I felt her tongue, halting at first, not yet ready to breach the brim of my mouth, but then bolder, gliding against mine before retreating again. She held my face with both hands and tilted her head first one way, then another, and then, eager for more, then more still, she sealed the corners of our mouths together and moaned urgently until I gave her my own tongue to play with.
I heard a throat clear. With great effort I pulled away from Clara’s lips, only for her to continue along my neck. Except there Clara was, as well, standing before me in sunglasses, a white floral bikini, and holding a crate of bananas.
“These just arrived,” she said. She raised an eyebrow, dropped the crate to the ground, and stormed back toward the house.
* * *
“Try to lay out in my own yard,” Clara mumbled to herself, pulling a white t-shirt over her bikini. “Where is she?”
“I covered her with a towel, she’s still outside.”
“Deepthroating bananas?”
I rolled my eyes but it wasn’t impossible.
“You didn’t feel a thing?” I asked. “My lips, my tongue, my—”
Clara glared at me.
“Then it worked! You’re decoupled! This is what I’ve been working on all week.”
“And now she’s up and running and not wearing any clothes and if I’m not in the mood one night you’ve got a backup to bend over your desk.”
“We have our rule,” I reminded her. “No sex with a double unless we’re both involved.
Clara smiled, but seemed unconvinced, perhaps remembering how many times she’d bent that rule with my doubles.
“And we don’t have to start now,” I added. “We can wait until you’re ready”
She sighed, but then nodded and gave me a hug.
But her double was less patient. Clara leant her some clothes, an older orange sundress she found unattractive, but which I secretly found very appealing. Her double cornered me in the library one day wearing this dress. She slipped the straps from her shoulders and let it fall to her waist, revealing a strapless pink pushup bra. She pressed herself against me, her generous chest rising and falling as she took long, deep breaths.
She looked me in the eyes, then down at her own panting body, her mouth open slightly, as if realizing for the first time just how alluring her cleavage must be.
An incredibly difficult proposition to reject, but I asked her to excuse me.
One day, while cooking breakfast, I saw her amble into the pantry, that light dress twirling just enough for me to catch a glimpse of her pink panties. She stood for a moment, studying the top shelf, then stretched on her tiptoes toward the all-purpose flour. The dress, short to begin with, creeped higher, and when she caught me looking, she pushed the door closed with her foot.
I sighed. I knew I needed oregano for the eggs. It was pitch black when I entered. I felt her place something in my front pocket, and when I turned on the light I realized it had been her dress. She stood in her matching underwear with her back against the door, her hands behind her back, her legs crossed at the ankle. She looked me over, saw the unmistakable interest in my pants, and slowly turned. She looked back over her shoulder. She arched her pelvis away from the door. She began to slide the panties from her hips.
I scanned the shelves. I grabbed the oregano and a jar of hoisin sauce for some reason, then insisted she let me pass.
One day she followed me into the shower and immediately took my soft loins into her soapy hands. I let her, partly out of need as I felt myself stiffen, felt my responsive tip graze her belly button, but partly because I only realized that she wasn’t my wife after Clara entered to brush her teeth. Her double and I were both caught off guard when Clara tore open the shower door.
An obvious misunderstanding, I said. How could I have known? Then, unwisely, I begged, begged, begged Clara to finish me, any way she liked, lest I spontaneously combust from the tension.
Clara looked us over as she scrubbed, especially focused on the fact that her double’s hand was still washing my cock. Then she leaned forward, spit a mouthful of toothpaste toward the drain by our feet, and closed the door.
A Wife For All Seasons, Part 3 [sci-fi] [MFF, all over 30]
I tried to highlight the benefits Clara seemed to be overlooking. This wasn’t about my pleasure, alone. We weren’t a threesome; we were a twosome with three bodies, and as such, she could now experience simultaneous sensations like no woman in human history.
As she rode me in bed one night, just the two of us in the 3 am dark, I asked Clara to bring in her double.
“Now?” she asked.
“Trust me,” I said.
She never stopped. She held her hands flat against my chest as she slid back and forth against my pelvis. But eventually her second body appeared in the doorway, dripping wet from the bath.
I motioned for her to climb onto the bed, then told her to sit over my face, the two Clara’s facing each other. I licked her once, slowly. Then twice. Then more steadily, all as I pulled the bedsheet up over Clara’s hip and used it to hold her firmly on my cock.
“You can’t cum here,” I said, thrusting upward, “until you’re also ready to cum here,” I said, flicking my tongue.
This took longer than I would have guessed. This was partly intentional, as I more than once brought her to the brink with my tongue before stopping altogether, gently kissing her thigh until she was calm enough to continue. But even beyond my own games, it was at least half an hour before I felt the familiar tightening around my shaft, followed immediately by her bodily flutter against my tongue. In the morning I told her there was no need to savor the moment, that I was her slave as much as she was mine. She told me that no, it had taken her longer than usual because it made her dizzy to watch two versions of herself bouncing in different rhythms.
I tried pointing out that we could go down on each other—Clara’s favorite—but in virtually any position. I found her in the library one day, for instance, pulling a book of landscape photographs from the shelf. I reached under her skirt, pulled the lilac panties down her legs, and asked if she could fetch me a cookbook from the top shelf. I stood beneath the ladder. She pursed her lips at me and held the skirt tight around her thighs as she climbed, but when she reached the right height, one foot a rung above the other, I ran the length of my middle finger along her slit. She nearly fell, knocking some books to the floor in the process, but she caught herself and pulled her skirt a bit higher as I leaned forward to kiss her fragrant lips. I stayed this way, face buried between her legs, until I felt a pair of hands slip my cock from my pants and rest it on a cold lower rung. I stayed this way, massaging the backs of my wife’s thighs, until I felt the hint of a breath and a wet warmth enveloped my shaft inch by luxurious inch.
I tried to highlight the role of spontaneity. My wife went for a jog on Wednesday afternoon. Her outfit, my god, a light blue sports bra with black leggings, elicited a honk of approval from a passing car the moment she left the driveway. I watched Clara disappear around the far bend and instantly wanted her.
My wife’s double was folding clothes in the laundry room. The washing machine rumbled.
“I know what you’re going to say,” I said, untying the belt that held her dress in place.
“What?” she asked, placing a timid hand on my chest.
“You’re going to say that you’re around people, that you’re in public, that we absolutely can’t fool around now.” I backed her toward the washing machine.
“Oh no no no no, you’re exactly right,” she laughed. “You can wash me off when I’m home if you’re good and clean the bathrooms.”
I took off my shirt and let her feel my stomach.
“Harry…”
I lifted her onto the washing machine.
She closed her eyes and tilted her head, as if needing a moment. “Harry,” she repeated, more quietly.
Spontaneity, a double-edged sword. She loved me as we fucked on that vibrating machine. She held her legs around my waist to keep me from pulling out and kept her mouth pinned to mine to keep from screaming. If I tried to kiss her neck or ear, she grabbed my face and pulled my lips back firmly to hers.
She loved me then, but when she got home she was furious. Clara told me she wasn’t on a jog at that instant, that she couldn’t hide her panting behind exercise. She told me she had been shopping for a water bottle in the grocery store. She had attempted shallow breathing in one of the less trafficked aisles, pretending to read the back of a peanut butter jar for ten minutes as my cock vibrated inside of her. She steadied herself with the help of a popcorn display. But the sensations eventually grew so strong that she had to sit down on the floor by the charcoal. Multiple people asked if she was all right, including an elderly woman who seemed, impossibly, to know exactly what was happening.
“So no, you cannot wash me today,” Clara said, storming off for her shower.
Still, she’d gotten a taste for exhibitionism. After she’d rinsed off, she went to the kitchen for a glass of red wine, took it outside, and sat on a step of our front stoop. I watched her through the window. She cinched her short, silken black robe tight at the neck and took a sip. After a few moments, her double entered the living room wearing an identical robe. She drew the curtains closed, turned off the light, and straddled me on the couch.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Clara said. She kissed my neck and pinned my wrists to the couchback. “If any of the neighbors come by we’ll have to pause so I can say hello.” Every five minutes, it seemed, Clara would go from riding me vigorously to a complete stop. She’d kiss across my chest in gentle pecks, her pelvis unmoving, despite my pleas, and I’d hear her friendly voice through the window. They were usually short greetings, though occasionally someone would ask her about work and, unable to play completely by her rules, I’d graze my teeth against her nipple. At one point I heard Clara flirting with the firefighter next door and felt her subtly, mistakenly squeeze against my cock. I spanked her and heard her gasp slightly through the window.
Still, most of Clara’s interest in her double was nonsexual. She experimented with contrasts—washing her hair on one body as she blow dried it on the other. She drank a cup of hot lemon-ginger tea as she also drank an iced coffee. She rubbed lotion along two legs as she shaved the others.
One night I found my wife relaxed in the bath with a lit candle and a glass of rosé as her double ran a soapy loofah across her arms.
“The real potential is in self-pleasure,” I said one evening, setting our empty dinner plates in the sink. “Your own tongue, exactly as you like it.”
“Hmm, do we have dessert?” Clara asked. “Something chocolate?”’
I arranged a small plate of cookies and set it on the table.
“I could be there on standby, just in case. Watching from the wings,” I said. “But you know. Make yourself comfortable with some music. Some oils. Take your time. One body then the other.”
“Sounds too strange.” Clara reached for a cookie. “Is that what you did? Sucked your own dick?”
“There’s no need to be crude, Clara.” I sat back against my chair.
“I’m sorry, Harry, but this just doesn’t mean as much to me as it does to you. In fact, I’ve been thinking about it—can we just turn off my transistor or whatever? Is that possible?”
“I suppose,” I said. “Your second body would just be on autopilot.”
“I don’t want to ruin the experiment or ruin your turn for fun, but this element of control—I don’t like it. It’s too much.”
I can’t pretend I wasn’t a little disappointed. My darling Clara who deserved every pleasure in the world. But if she wasn’t satisfied, I couldn’t force her on my account.
“Let me see what I can do.” I held Clara’s hand across the table. “I may have to shut her down for a week, but it should work out fine.”
That night I was back in the lab and my wife read a George Eliot novel by the fireplace.