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You first see them at a bar. It’s a busy night, no reason they should catch your attention so entirely, but - well. You’ve been feeling pretty lonely lately, zeroing in on any butch you see and keeping them in your thoughts for hours after, wondering if they feel this too. The distance between the two of you seemingly impossible to cross, preventing you from finding that one magical puzzle piece that would make living like this more bearable. You never speak to any of them, barely dare to glance, afraid they’d look back.
The pair of them, though, they’re hard to look away from. It might be the limited possibilities of the bar, only so many people to look at as you unenthusiastically sip your beer. Or the fact that they’re older than you, surrounded by a group of other middle-aged women of all expressions; the whole gaggle of them giving the air of reunion. Maybe it’s the leathers, sported so comfortably, without any of the self doubt you feel any time you try something more than a basic leather jacket on, or the fact it reminds you of old Pride pictures. In the end, all that matters is this: you’re alone and vaguely bummed out, they’re fascinating and glowing and full of life, and there is a want in you.
You try not to stare, you really do. You know damn well what it feels like to be judged anywhere you go, how it makes this skin of yours feel impossible to live in sometimes, and you make a point to not make others feel that way, if you can help it. There’s also the possibility of them catching you, looking back, and that is - well. That’s just fucking terrifying.
You lift the glass to your mouth and force yourself to scan the whole room, even though there’s just one spot your eyes want to come back to. Nothing’s changed, everyone is still busy in small groups, mostly tucked into booths or reaching over tables to hear their mates better. By the time you get to the two older butches, it’s painfully clear: they’re still the brightest thing in here.
The shorter one - the dangerous looking one, who makes you desperate to prove something to her, you don’t even know what - is watching the skinny femme they’re talking to, her own glass of beer held high and up to her face, like she wants to hide the unpleased twist of her mouth. The bigger one is nodding at the speaker, an easy smile making her cheeks dimple, and something twists in your gut at the adorableness of her. Her dark eyes are twinkling, and there’s creases in their corners you can see even from your seat, and you wonder what it must feel like to receive one of her smiles.
She laughs and you can’t hear it, but her face grows even more radiant with the joy of whatever she’s reacting to, and she throws an arm around the shoulders of the smaller one. The short butch wiggles in her place, tries to throw the soft arm off, but only half-heartedly, like an old bit repeated for the sake of an audience, and gets a shoulder squeeze for her trouble. You have to look away. Something in the casual intimacy makes it almost painful to look at, the fit of them next to each other too comfortable and well-practiced for you to witness.
They seem like very good friends, you think unironically, completely divorced from the cloudy wonderings on whether they’re also partners, or fucking, or whatever else. That much is obvious: the two of them have known each other for a long time, maybe longer than you’ve known anyone, and that’s what makes them fit together so neatly. You wonder if you’ll ever experience a bond like that, with someone who’s truly seen you at all points of life and didn’t back down, if it’s even possible to build and maintain in the mess of other relationships, familial drama and work bullshit.
You’ve almost started talking to them in your head, like you do with those random unsuspecting butches you pass on the street or at the supermarket, when the shorter, striking woman lifts up her gaze and looks straight at you.
Your heart stops. You look down immediately, notice you’ve made a mess with the black nail polish you’ve been scratching off your nails while lost in thought, and feel the tips of your ears grow warm. Another reason you’ll never have a friendship like theirs: you fluster so easily, especially when you see a butch that feels so much cooler than you, always winning in the silent competition going on inside your head. As usual, you pretend not to see and hope they don’t notice you at all.
You focus on the screen above the bar, some game or other playing, and you lose yourself in watching tiny men run over too-bright grass. You don’t even like sports; all you gather after long minutes of watching is that it’s definitely football. By the time you deem it safe to look back, the femme has started chatting with someone else and the two butches are whispering to each other.
Then it happens again. The big, bald one looks straight at you and smiles, friendly. She waves a little, a cute small gesture, and waves you over to them. Your whole body freezes, and you’re very sure this is the end of your sorry life.
Swallowing the last of your beer, you do everything to buy time and figure out what to do, checking for your phone and wallet and making sure to set the empty glass somewhere the staff’ll find it easily. Your only options seem to be running out the door, or coming over for what your brain has decided will be a terrifying talking-to, and you pride yourself on not being a complete coward. So you stand, make your legs take you to where they’re standing against the far wall, and try not to panic.
You keep your eyes down, feeling more and more like a scolded schoolchild, despite not once having reacted like this in your actual childhood. Guess all your bravery stayed with your old toys in an attic somewhere.
The first thing you see is their shoes, naturally. Both black leather, simple and strong, nothing like the flashy platforms your peers wear, and perfectly maintained. You’re immediately ashamed of the scruffy old doc knock-offs on your own feet, the pleather barely holding together and probably leaving microplastics around with every step you take.
“Hey there,” Someone says in a very soft, lovely voice. You reluctantly lift your gaze and see it’s the larger woman speaking, the tattoos all over her exposed belly distracting you, begging for attention. “Aw, don’t be shy, we don’t bite!”
“Speak for your fucking self,” The other woman murmurs gruffly, takes a sip of her drink.
“Izzy! You’ll scare the kid away!” Izzy just rolls her eyes at her friend and goes back to looking displeased, but it doesn’t seem to have the same effect on the nice bear of a woman as it does on you. She’s not quivering in her boots, for one. “Don’t mind her. Did your friends bail on you?”
Your friends were all too busy to come, or, in some cases, to text back at all. This was your attempt at giving new people the opportunity to meet you, or whatever your therapist would call it. The two of them are the first people you’ve talked to since leaving work yesterday.
“Something like that.” You say.
“Don’t worry, you can hang with us instead! I’m Fang.” You give your name, feeling all kinds of ways about the fact it’s not as badass as Fang, and shake her soft hand, and then you’re out of things to say.
“I like your leathers,” Is what comes out of your mind in the end, and you point awkwardly at Fang’s vest, buttoned tightly over her chest and open from her sternum down, framing her round belly. You realise you’re pointing at her tits and you drop your hand, blushing.
“Oh, these old things? Pfff.” Fang says with a cutely pleased expression that lets you know she’s glad you noticed them, at the same time as Izzy says, “Do you, now?” in a curious tone that makes you want to straighten your back.
You nod your head enthusiastically, mostly looking to Fang, afraid of what you might find written on Izzy’s face. “I - um, I can tell you take good care of it. Looks awesome.”
Fang beams at you. “The work can be meditative to some. Here,” She reaches over to snatch Izzy’s leather sailor hat right off her head and puts it on you. “Now we match.”
You look nervously to her friend, feeling your face heat at the whole fucking situation, really, but Izzy doesn’t even look mad. You get the feeling that she’d let Fang do things no other living person would be allowed to do to her, and something in your chest clenches. She looks almost bored, if unimpressed, but doesn’t protest. A strand of her graying, slicked back hair pokes out of the styled rest, and it makes her look just a tiny bit less intimidating. Fang takes a sip of her drink, which you now notice is a pink, fruity looking thing, and you suddenly love that small detail about her.
“Who’s Queen Anne?” You say, scrambling for something to talk about before they send you away and settling on the print on Izzy’s white T-shirt, peeking out from under her unbuttoned vest. The hat feels heavy and warm on your head. You wonder if you look like you belong with them, now.
Fang laughs a little, and you feel yourself pinken more. Just like you to say something silly and shoot yourself in the foot.
“She was a bar.” Izzy says, faint amusement tilting the corners of her mouth up. “Been gone almost twenty years now. We used to hang there all the time.”
Your mind spins a little at the concept of the two of them having over twenty years of history together, almost your entire life. You try to imagine the scene there, piecing it together from pictures and stories you’ve seen online of a time you never got to experience, overwhelmed. You want to hear more, learn about queer bars from before all the trashy music and straight girls with their boyfriends ruining the vibe, before the prices spiked up so much you can barely afford to go out once a month. Fang must see it on your face, because she leans in conspiratorially and faux-whispers: “Izzy’s got all these photos, you know, from back in the days. Bet if you asked real nice she’d show them to you.”
“Right now?” Your mouth says before you can approve the thought, betraying your eagerness. Your face goes up in flames, but Izzy’s smirk just widens. She downs her drink and reaches to lift a leather jacket off the back of a chair.
“Sure, kid, why not.” Izzy says, shrugging her jacket on. It looks big enough to fit Fang, and you wonder if it’s a hand-me-down or some sort of a claim, but all your brain can really register is hot older butch head to toe in leather, so your scramble to find your own jacket is less than graceful. A few steps behind you, Fang says something to Izzy and giggles, a disarming sound that sends a warm thrill through you, and Izzy swats at her playfully for it.
On the way to Izzy’s apartment, which is apparently just a few blocks away, you learn that she doesn’t really consider herself a photographer. The pictures she took at Queen Anne’s were an attempt at impressing the owner, some mysterious femme Izzy seems reluctant to talk about. The bar used to attract mostly leather queers and some bikers, up until the owner sold it and moved to the other side of the country chasing a crush. It’s such a painfully lesbian story you have to laugh, and Izzy sends you a small smile despite, you can tell, still being a little tender about it.
When you arrive at Izzy’s door, wooden and painted black, Fang ushers you in with a hand on the small of your back. You’ve hated receiving that kind of touch before, but you find you don’t mind it at all from this big, smiling woman. It feels possessive and condescending in the best way; you suppose it’s about who is behind the warm palm on your vulnerable spine.
Izzy and Fang are still busy untying their shoes by the time you’ve kicked yours off, so you take a second to take in the apartment's decor. It’s mostly blacks and grays with some quality wooden furniture here and there, and it’s gay in a subtle way your peers never seem to achieve. It feels fancy, in the way that it seems very grown-up, put together by years of memories with practical details, rather than polyester pride flags hanging from every wall. You’re focused on an ink drawing of a naked woman hanging in one of the many frames lining the walls when Izzy slips behind you quietly. She holds your hips as she squeezes past, moving you just slightly out of her way, and it’s one more thing you’ve never thought you’d enjoy. Her touch is a firm, self-assured brief pressure, and you miss it the moment it disappears.
“I’ll put on some tea,” Fang announces cheerily, then ducks into what has to be the kitchen, so you follow Izzy into the main room. She’s crouching on the floor, pulling photo albums from a bottom shelf of a messy bookshelf, and you’re kind of surprised to see she really wants to show you her pictures. From the moment they first spoke to you, you’ve built the whole interaction in your head into something extremely horny, you realize, and you feel kind of stupid now for reading it all so wrong.
Izzy opens one of the heavy albums and nods to herself. “These should do. You can look through anything you want.” She heaves herself up into a standing position, one of her joints popping as she straightens up. She massages the leg briefly while making her way over to a well-loved armchair right by the bookshelf.
There’s a perfectly good couch opposite the chair, with a coffee table and all, but Izzy’s left the albums open on the floor, so you sink to your knees on the rug and look over the first page of pictures. They all have that dreamy quality of film photography, the colors often milky or faded in the spark of the flash, and many are even shot in black and white. The people captured are beautiful - mostly young, in simple yet striking outfits of leather and denim and plaid, with haircuts that are a breath of fresh air after the newest wave of mullets you’ve experienced recently. Everyone seems to have a certain air of casual coolness about them, or maybe they’re just truly comfortable in their space. You notice the way the more masc people hold themselves, their easy confidence; you wonder at the diversity of gender expressions captured; you enjoy some detailed shots of girls’ scratched-up heels and manicured fingers holding cigarettes.
Fang comes in to put on a CD on the old, dusty radio, then vanishes again to return with cups of tea. She seems really comfortable here, and you wonder how much of this home was shaped by her presence. Izzy receives her drink with a low “Thanks, love.” and you fixate on the use of that petname, suddenly desperate to deserve being called that too. You turn a page and Fang leans over you, setting a steaming cup on the floor next to you and looking over your shoulder.
“Aw, that’s her opening day!” Fang coos, pointing at a picture of a much younger Izzy next to a tall, dark haired woman wearing a huge grin. In the photo, Izzy’s tucked against the woman’s shoulder, one of her hands tangled in Izzy’s hair, messing it up. Behind them, a bar’s front doors and windows shine with a reflection of the setting sun, and sure enough the plaque above their head announces it’s the Queen Anne’s Revenge. “You were both such babies! Wasn’t our Iz such a looker?”
The last question is clearly meant for you, so you answer honestly, tracing younger Izzy’s silhouette with your finger. “I’d say she still is.” Baby-Izzy’s hand is around the taller woman’s waist, and she looks annoyed at the treatment of the hair she styled probably just as carefully as she did today, but in a pleased kind of way, like she’s enjoying the closeness. It makes you smile.
There is a silence around you, filled only by the sounds of guitars and drums coming from shitty speakers, and you realize suddenly you’re the cause of it. When you look up, you find both Izzy and Fang watching you with unreadable expressions. You want to kick yourself for being unable to act normal and you lower your gaze to where you’re fidgeting with a bent corner of an album’s page. Fang coughs meaningfully, and you can feel them communicating silently above your head. You brace yourself for being asked to leave, when Izzy leans forward in her armchair. “Come here, kid,” she says, and you obey without thought, walking the few steps that separate you on your knees.
Once you’re close enough, she grabs you by the chin, pulling you even closer, until you’re fully sitting on your haunches between her legs. Your heart starts beating faster. She moves your face up to look her in the eye and you do, half turned-on and half terrified of what you might find there.
“Tell me very clearly, now.” Izzy commands, her fingers digging into your cheeks a little. “Did you come here to look at my pictures, do some queer archeology and such, or were you hoping for something more?”
You can’t tell if she’s mad at you. All you can focus on is the way her grip’s making your lips pucker towards her, like a fish’s; the threat of her blunt fingernails against the soft skin on your cheeks; the fact that you’re on your knees before her while she sits like a king on her throne. It takes you a while, but you finally manage to gasp out a single word: more.
“Told you they just wanna be good for us,” Fang says, and she’s right behind you now, close enough to feel her body heat. A plump hand lands on the scruff of your neck and squeezes affectionately, and you shiver. “Isn’t that right, pup?”
“Yes, sir,” you choke out, your eyes falling closed to protect you from Izzy’s penetrative gaze. Your hands curl into small fists, and you do feel as clumsy and little as a young puppy, indeed.
“Is that why you were watching us?” Izzy asks, voice low and suggestive, moving her hand to pet your head. “Wanted to impress us? Show us what a handsome little thing you are?”
You nod your head dumbly, flushing. You start biting at the dry skin of your lower lip, until a finger doesn’t pull it from between your teeth. When you open your eyes, Izzy’s face is sending a clear message: none of that.
“Izzy thought you were judging us.” Fang says, with a smile in her voice. She rubs both her large hands over your shoulders, now, trying to comfort the spooked animal you are. “But I knew you were just too eager for your own good, hm?”
She sounds so sweet. There should be a bite to it, a condescension, but you’re quickly learning Fang is nothing but genuine. Something in you whimpers pathetically, and you have to fight to keep the noise from coming out high in your throat.
“What are we gonna do with ‘em, Fangie?” Izzy wonders, gripping your face again, shaking you a little. You feel like a ragdoll in her hands, limp and brainless.
Fang kneels behind you, the soft heat of her pressing against your back and you sink into the not-quite-embrace gratefully. She’s anchoring you in the storm that is Izzy’s attention, and you love her for it. Izzy’s skin is dry enough to feel rough against your cheeks.
“I think we should show them a little lovin’.” Fang answers easily, like it’s normal to look at the mess of you and think to care for you. Your head hangs heavily in Izzy’s hold, and you somehow trust them both to hold you up. Fang is petting your back and your sides, a sweet rub that reminds you that you still have a body.
With that newly gained knowledge, you remember you can move, and you slide your fists up Izzy’s legs. The leather of her trousers is smooth and cool, well taken care of, and you wish you could feel it on more of your naked skin. You push yourself up, tilt your head questioningly up towards her perfect, severe face and wait. She smirks at you, one corner of her mouth higher than the other, lets you nose at the devastating line of her jaw before ducking to demand a kiss. You give it willfully, thrilled at the slide of lips over lips, at the threat of the teeth scraping against the vulnerable inside of your mouth. Fang makes a happy sound, a quiet hum, and presses herself more firmly against you, pushing you further towards Izzy. Somebody’s hand is in your hair, pulling you into the kiss.
It lasts an eternity; it’s over in the blink of an eye. Izzy straightens up in her seat, lets her legs fall apart wider, stretches the one that bothers her. She looks down at you like a ravishment, her lips slightly pinker than before, but everything else about her still perfectly put together, in control.
Fang tugs you towards herself and you angle your head back to lick at her mouth, her soft lips still stretched in a small smile. She takes mercy on you after a while, lets you in, and it’s measured and soft and so different from how Izzy kissed you. She’s content to keep making out for a while, but urges you to turn around with warm hands pulling at your love handles, gentle but firm. Soon enough you’re straddling her thigh and making embarrassing sounds she hopefully mostly swallows.
You don’t even notice your hips moving, not until the urgency of your need builds up to something unavoidable. You grind on her supple thigh mindlessly, just chasing pressure and the hint of touch between your legs. Her hands fall lower until she’s gripping your ass, palms big enough to hold most of each cheek. She guides your movements, controls your rhythm, so you can focus entirely on her wet tongue teasing tiny licks at your own, press your paws into her wide chest and try to crawl under her leathers.
You can’t remember the last time a conveniently placed leg was all it took for you to grind yourself to completion, but you’re close now. Fang smells cozily like a scented candle, and there’s deceptive strength to her, for how soft a creature she is. You’re hungry for more of her, so you let your mouth slide wetly down her chin and towards her neck, kissing every bit of skin that comes your way. When you get to a spot under her left ear, she groans out loud, and you feel rare pride spark up in your chest.
There’s shuffling behind you, sounds of someone bored of sitting on the sidelines, and when you open your eyes lazily, still sucking at a delicious spot right over Fang’s artery, Izzy’s standing in front of you. She’s looking down at the both of you, the place where you’re joined, mouth-to-skin, and her gaze is hot. Her hand slides down her body to press against the front of her trousers, unhurried. She must be enjoying the show. You bite Fang a little, suck in as much skin as you can, determined to make your mark, and flatten your hand to slide underneath the edge of Fang’s vest.
She’s bare underneath it; the whole outfit is a bit precarious, as her generous flesh presses against the straining buttons of her vest, and you remember she went out like this. You fit your palm against one of her breasts and wonder what leather feels like on bare skin.
Izzy is palming herself through her own leather. You can’t see until she undoes her fly that she’s strapped underneath the trousers. A smallish silicone cock is revealed, held in place by a simple leather harness with shining buckles. The signature sex-toy shade of pink should be in contrast with her entire vibe, but somehow she makes it look not silly at all. Your mouth waters as she slides her hand down her shaft, squeezes at the base.
Fang glances behind her shoulder at her friend and grins, squeezing your sides. “Do you want to suck Daddy’s cock, puppy?”
You’re glad they keep reminding you of your place, because it helps you not to spiral into self-consciousness. This is not a game you’ve played before, but maybe you should have, considering how being called a pup takes the pressure off your shoulders. A dog’s just supposed to be obedient; it can only impress people by being good for them.
“Yes. Please,” You say, voice higher than usual, but it doesn’t matter much, because Daddy’s looking at you with heat in her eyes and she’s everything you’ve ever wanted to be and more, and she’s guiding her cock to your lips and smoothing back your hair. You take the toy’s tip in your mouth and are surprised to find it softer than expected, with more give to it than the dildoes you’ve dealt with in the past. You suppose that explains how she hid it so well in those maddening skin-tight trousers, at least partially.
You take to sucking Izzy’s dick with more enthusiasm than skill, which doesn’t matter either way, since it’s got no nerve endings. You make all the appropriate noises, lips wrapped around pink silicone, careful not to go too far. As much as you’d love to have Izzy fuck your face, your gag reflex is not that obedient, and the heft of the toy in your mouth is already a lot for you.
“You’re being so good for us, lovey.” Fang coos in your ear, rubbing your sides. “Look at how good you’re making Daddy feel!”
You lift your gaze up and try to focus on Izzy’s face. She’s panting, her eyes glassy and hair slipping out of the carefully slicked-back style. She’s got one hand pressed close to her mound, maybe holding the base of her dick against herself, and you feel wild thinking about her feeling your movements in her clit through the silicone. Your hands shoot out towards her narrow hips to pull her closer, fingers sliding under the unforgiving stiff harness to squeeze at her sides, the little pouches of fat gathered there. Her skin is hot and softer than you expected, and you suck harder, determined to really make it worth her while.
Her hands are ruffling your short hair. She’s not holding you down, forcing herself deeper, no - just guiding, moving right with you, letting you set the pace. You pretend the silicone in your mouth is flesh, warm and alive, until you start to believe it. You want to taste her cum so badly.
Fang is still whispering soft praise in your ear, but it all fades into a continuous stream you can’t decipher the particularities of. Izzy looks beyond words, brows furrowing as if in concentration. She’s beautiful, still strong and intimidating, despite the air of vulnerability her pleasure provides, and you can’t imagine never getting to see her like this. It feels like your entire worldview is shifting, to provide for her this way, like something’s clicking into place.
Then Fang’s hands slide lower, one cupping your ass, the other on your front, not inviting herself there but offering. You freeze, paralyzed by the touch, by how terribly, uncomfortably there it is. You let Izzy’s cock slip out of your mouth and cringe.
“Not - there,” you say, feeling pathetic and ungrateful. The hand immediately moves, rests on your hip instead, and you hang your head in shame.
“Alright.” Fang says easily, then kisses your nose. She doesn’t seem to be waiting for an explanation, and it seems suspiciously simple. You squeeze your eyes shut against the unfamiliar feeling in your chest. “You know, Izzy’s stone.”
You open your eyes reluctantly to look at the woman in question, receiving a small nod. It should feel like relief, and it does, kind of, but then there’s the burn of tears threatening to fall, and you’re sure you’re fucking it up again.
Izzy looks at you sternly, with a sureness you don’t think you’ve ever felt about anything. She grabs your chin again and forces you to look her squarely in the face, even through the salty wetness in your eyes.
“You’re good, kid.” She says, and her voice is a little rough, but also fully convinced, like there’s no doubt in her mind about it.
You break.
“I wanted - to give you everything, but…” You say, exposing yourself, tears sliding hot down your cheeks. You shake your head. You did want that, still do, on some abstract fantasy-level, but you know the reality of yourself too. You could never give them everything they wanted, no matter how hard you tried. You’ve learned that wishing you were different than you are doesn’t really change a thing.
Izzy’s face is the picture of understanding, and the recognition is more than you were prepared for, today. Something comes loose deep inside you as she strokes your cheek with a thumb and repeats herself. “You’re good.”
You take a moment to breathe and try to believe her. Fang’s rubbing your back in soothing circles, letting it play out. A few more tears drop from your eyelashes, but you feel a little better now, if still shaken. The worst part, you think, is being seen so entirely, a reflection of yourself staring at you through Izzy’s eyes.
You want to apologize out of embarrassment, though you know you don’t have to. Either way, your throat’s closed up, so all you can really do is to nod weakly and hide your face in Fang’s shoulder, for just a second.
“Tell you what,” Izzy starts, cupping your cheek for a brief moment before stepping away to walk across the room. “I might be stone, but our Fang sure isn’t. How about I lend you my kit and you fuck her good for me, hm?”
“Oh, yay!” Fang says, adorably, and all your complicated feelings disappear, replaced by a strong fondness for the goofy woman. You smile and nod your head at Izzy, and she makes quick work of digging through a dresser drawer. “We should get off the floor, though. Some of us aren’t in our twenties anymore.”
Fang winks at you and pecks your lips before helping you climb out of her lap, and just like that it’s easy again. You reach out a hand and pull her up, a little bit clumsily between her stiff legs and your shakiness, but you manage it in the end. She does a full body stretch, then comes over to place a kiss at the nape of Izzy’s neck.
“Bed?” She asks, and Izzy nods silently, a soft smile on her lips. “Oh, can we do the long green one? It’s delish!”
You feel warmed, watching them pick a cock for you, and you decide it’s high time you lose some clothes. You undress to your underwear, hang your trousers and top on the arm of the chair, and see Fang pulling out a harness out of the drawer.
It’s nothing as fancy as Izzy’s leather one, just the bare minimum of black stripes with plastic buckles to get the job done, not unlike your own. You’re still struck by the idea of owning more than one strap harness, with dildoes to choose from, and it hits you as another small, adult thing about Izzy. You’ve just got the one set, the cheapest decent-looking one, and you’re grateful you get something a little bit better to treat Fang to.
“C’mon, pup.” Fang hands you the harness and the long, smooth dildo she’s chosen for herself, then grabs one of the swinging straps to pull you into the corridor and towards where the bedroom must be. Like a dog on a leash, you think hotly, following her eagerly.
Fang throws herself onto the made bed immediately upon arrival, the pleats of her kilt fluttering with the movement. She goes to slide the garment off, and you pause mid-climbing into the harness. “No, please - leave it on.” At her questioning look, you pinken and explain. “You look too hot in that to just throw it aside.”
She beams at you, and you can never really get tired of her smile. There’s a pureness to it that has wormed its way into your heart and you know it’ll stay there forever.
You busy yourself with your task while Fang searches for a pillow to slide under her hips. Izzy arrives a moment later, stripped of her trousers, pink cock jutting out in front of her. She’s wearing the gorgeous harness over her boxers, just like you are, and you’re struck by the intimacy of her sharing her toys with you. Black nylon digs into your thighs and your ass just like it must’ve done on Izzy, once upon a time. The base of the green cock presses against you nicely, closer than you’d ever get to Izzy otherwise, and it hits you that you’re sharing so much more than a lover, tonight. You feel amazed and grateful.
Izzy seems to focus her attention on Fang, now spread out comfortably on the bed. Her legs fell open, her chest strains against the few buttons holding her vest closed, and her tattooed belly rises and falls visibly with breath. She looks delectable, but Izzy frowns.
“When’d you get rid of your pants?” She asks, gaze stuck to where the kilt’s fabric barely conceals Fang’s crotch. Her very naked crotch, you realize with a thrill.
“That’s how they wear it in Scotland!” Fang insists, pushing herself up on her elbows. Izzy laughs.
“You’re such a fucking slut, you big dyke.”
Fang pouts adorably, but you can tell this kind of banter is normal for them and doesn’t mean a thing. Fang’s head turns towards you and she beckons you closer with one hand.
“Come here, pup, the old lady’s being mean to me.” You chuckle as you climb onto the bed and between her thighs, run your hands from her knees further north.
She’s got tattoos everywhere, it seems like, varying in size and style, and you want to catalogue every single one of them. Her skin feels almost unnaturally soft, only more so with the layer of fat underneath, making her thighs wide and deliciously grabbable. You lean in to kiss her and she falls back onto the pillows, pulls you closer by the scruff of your neck into the sweet glide of her mouth on yours. Your dominant hand slides to her cunt and finds it spread open and waiting, wet and hot on your fingers.
Fang sighs into your mouth when you skim two unhurried fingertips down her slit, over her clit and all the way down to her hole. Her lips are big, and you have half a thought to pull away to watch how they frame her, see their tawny pinkness against your skin, but you can’t leave that plump mouth unkissed, so you stay as you are.
You learn her quickly, notice how a long slide from the base of her clit to the very tip makes her breath catch in a way that different movements don’t, and you have fun playing with her pussy, until a hand on your shoulder stops you.
“Forgot where to put it, kid?” Izzy rasps, pressing herself solidly against your back. Her knees are pressing against the inside of yours, and you can feel her cock on your ass. That captivating voice right in your eardrums makes you shiver a little, and you pause.
“Oh, come on, Iz,” Fang says, probably feeling neglected. “They’re just doing the polite thing.”
“You can take it unstretched.” It’s a command, a statement of a fact, and there’s something mean in Izzy’s voice too. You bare your throat to her on instinct, waiting for the bite. Fang murmurs something affirmative, clearly struck dumb by the change in the mood.
Izzy pulls away for a second, and in that time Fang leans her head closer to yours to stage-whisper: “Bossy, isn’t she?”
You chuckle and she giggles. The giggle ends abruptly when you slip a finger into her, changing into more of a contented sigh. Izzy’s back at your back and she slaps Fang on her sensitive inner thigh.
“I heard you.” You pull your hand away, not wanting to get in trouble, but Izzy doesn’t say anything else, just pours an amount of lube onto her hand and brings it to your cock.
“Ha-ah.” You say, surprised at suddenly having a hand on your dick, traveling up and down your shaft to cover you neatly. Izzy’s motions are practiced, and your positioning means she has to really lean into your space, so very suddenly you’re surrounded by her. Your head spins a little at the sweetish smell of her sweat.
Her grip around your length is pretty loose, but still enough to press the base to your mound on every downstroke, each journey up leaving you craving more. She speeds up, flying over green silicone at a ravishing pace, and it’s all you can do to mutter “Fuck,” under your breath and hold on for dear life to Fang’s plush flesh. You don’t care what people say; you can feel your dick, you feel it in your clit and all around, and if you had balls they would be tightening right now. Your head falls back, against Izzy’s shoulder, as you gasp, and just as suddenly as it arrived, the pressure’s gone.
You whine pathetically, you can’t help it. Izzy was playing with you, you slowly realize, getting you desperate just for her own amusement. She pats your butt a few times with her clean hand and gestures at your crotch with the other.
“Go on now, pet, don’t keep her waiting.”
On shaking hands, you lower yourself over Fang, blinking at her owlishly. She sends you an encouraging smile, and you let the tip of the dildo slide between her lips to begin with.
Izzy tsks and inserts herself between the two of you again. She grabs the lowest part of your shaft and pulls you forward, guiding you inside of Fang. Fang makes a high noise as she’s entered, and you back out a little, only to push forward again until about a half of the dildo’s inside.
“C’mon, kid, fuck her like you mean it.” Izzy rumbles dangerously. You can feel her breath on your ear. “Make Daddy proud.”
That’s what gets you, in the end: your hips snap forward out of their own volition, the hidden promise of Izzy’s words ringing in your ears. Make Daddy proud, your mind repeats unthinkingly as you fuck into Fang, out and back in with a wet slap of flesh. You rest your weight on your arms, now holding the red kilt out of the way, pinning her down at the hipbones. You’re vaguely aware she’s making animal noises, of the kind that could either mean pain or pleasure, and of your own frantic grunts. All that matters is proving you can be good, though, that you can do what you’re asked to. You want Izzy to be proud of you.
You lose yourself in your rhythm, in the wet back-and-forth of your task, and Fang wiggles under you, tries to circle her hips. You give it to her hard and fast as best as you can manage, aware of the constant presence at your back, of the eyes that observe your every move. Fang squeezes around you; you falter, just a little, then come back with renewed force, spurred on by the knowledge that it’s clearly doing something for her, too.
You bend your elbows to put your mouth on her stomach, the great soft expanse that it is, kissing the tattoos and tiny hairs and stretch marks alike. It’s not to make it nicer for her, no - a wild part of your brain has been activated, and all it knows is to rut and mouth at whatever’s available.
You remember your own genitals are involved in the situation, however indirectly, only when Izzy drapes herself over your back. Immediately, you notice the heft of her cock between your thighs, not yet brushing against your clothed cunt, but close enough to send a jolt of excitement through you. You’ve never expected yourself to like something like this, but you quickly learn the promise of Izzy between your thighs, the threat of it, is a thing you enjoy deeply. You try to angle your ass as far back as you can, when you pull out of Fang, just to get that little bit closer to Izzy, to feel her front pressed tight against you. You moan, shameless, the sound mixing with Fang’s soft cries.
Izzy grabs your hip and forces you to synchronise your moves to hers, until she’s all but fucking Fang with you, controlling everything about what the both of you get. This might be the closest to bottoming you’ll ever enjoy, you realize, and there is something intoxicating about the thought. You may not let them fuck your cunt, but you’re definitely begging to feel plenty fucked in other ways, used from both sides as they see fit. It’s so good you could cry.
Fang has slipped a hand to her clit, at some point, and is now rubbing frantically at herself, observing the two of you with half-lidded eyes. You decide to give her a show and twist yourself just enough to lick into Izzy’s mouth, which she receives with no surprise or protest. It’s dirty, and it still feels more like a bite than a kiss, despite Izzy keeping her teeth to herself. If it wasn’t for Izzy, you’d forget to move your lower half at all, leaving Fang hanging; like this, you get to focus all your attention on the storm that is Izzy’s mouth while being used. She’s got all three of you. You’re so relieved to have someone in charge.
Fang’s heaving breaths have undone some of her buttons, and as she furiously jerks off to the sight of the two of you, the last button gives in too. It pops open and her tits spill out, vest falling open over her chest, so much golden skin suddenly on display. You groan loudly against Izzy’s lips, grind deep in her, chasing your high, and that’s what makes her cum beautifully on your dick. Her back arches slightly off the bed and she fucks herself on you with what little leverage she gained, her long moan like a spill.
You choke on air and try to push deeper into her, holding onto her quivering thighs. Izzy chooses that moment to snap out of sync with you, pulling away and slamming back home in a move you weren’t ready for. She fucks your thighs as if they were a cunt, and you fold in half over Fang, slip out of her and let her pound you against the mattress until the tension in you breaks and you spill your imaginary jizz all over yourself.
You lay like that, panting, somewhere in proximity to Fang’s perfect thighs, and somebody’s petting your hair. You’re suddenly very cold, and you register it must be Izzy’s absence, along with the cooling sweat. The sheets are cotton and smell nicely of laundry detergent. The dildo’s hard silicone is kind of digging into your hip, but you’re not willing to move yet.
Later, Izzy will come with your cooled teas, one in each hand. They’ll ask you if you want something to eat and put on an old movie on the TV in the living room. Later, you’ll snap a sneaky photo of a picture from Izzy’s book: her and Fang next to a pool table, wearing matching wife pleasers, cues held between their thighs like makeshift pricks. You’ll print it on shiny photo paper, most of its quality lost in the process, and keep it tucked in your wallet as a reminder of…something. She’ll never say it, but you’ll hope every day you’d made Izzy proud, that day.
For now, though, you sprawl out unmoving and let them caress you like a beloved pet, and life doesn’t exist outside of this bed.