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Slow Movement
by MagicNumber
It wasn't an obstacle. It was a rhythm. She would write while holding my eyes, and I would hang there, wanting whatever she was about to say.
We talked with the phone between us, each in our own language, every sentence arriving a few seconds late. She would smile, lower her eyes to it and type, and I was left reading her expression before I got the words.
She learned to play with that fast. She would build long sentences without looking away, stop, pick up again. Then the screen would light up with something perfectly simple, and I was already gone.
It was a sweet evening, the kind that asks nothing in return. We said goodnight late, with that rare feeling of having landed in the right place, and at the right time.
The next day the wanting was still there, all of it.
A photo arrived, and a message that thanked me and said she wanted to see me again. Three lines, and my whole day came back on.
The second message cooled me down. She did want to see me again, but she felt she should tell me she has a boyfriend. She was writing out of fairness, she explained: in case I was after something serious, she didn't want to waste my time.
I sat staring at that message for a long while, with no idea how to hold it. I didn't answer.
Then the third one, with another photo. That for the two of them this is normal, that there was nothing here to fix. That in fact she would have liked to share the evening with us both.
I didn't answer that either. I circled it for an hour, the way you circle a door left ajar.
The last photo ended the discussion. One languid look, nothing else, no words underneath. I am hopelessly straight, and the idea made me uncomfortable; but I wanted her, and she knew it perfectly well. She knows exactly how to make a man wait.
I said yes. I spent the day arguing with myself and losing every round.
Then the twist: he couldn't make it that evening. I found her in front of me alone, and my entire internal debate turned out to be beside the point.
She asked me one thing beforehand. Whether she could send him a few voice notes during the evening, a few photos. Share it. I saw no harm in that; if anything, it lit me up more than I was willing to admit.
Then she took my reason out of my hands.
She undressed without hurrying, setting the tempo of everything herself. She pushed me down onto the bed with an open hand on my chest and climbed on still half dressed, just to let me feel the heat through the fabric. When I touched her she was more than ready, and she laughed quietly against my mouth, because we both knew it.
I felt her open under my fingers, then under my tongue. She reached for the nightstand with her eyes shut, picked up the phone and started talking to him without stopping moving against me. I didn't understand a word of it; I understood all of it. The breath breaking halfway through, his name said like a caress and like a surrender.
She looked at me while she said it. I have never been so undone by something that had nothing to do with me.
Then the phone dropped onto the mattress and she came down on me. She took me in with one slow movement, holding my wrists, and from there on she stopped translating anything at all. She arched her back, found the shot one handed, sent the photo without even looking at it. The gleam on her chest, her mouth open, her eyes on me.
She was glorious. The second orgasm cut off whatever she was saying to him.
I have never seen anyone that free. Glad to be watched from two different points of the world at the same moment, and to enjoy herself without asking anyone's permission.
Whether that counts as a threesome, I don't know.
I know I walked out of there hungrier than I walked in.
My first time outside the lines. That's how it went, with nothing added.
