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.