tagGay MaleFeints

Feints

byCyanlot©

FEINTS

I.

"She won't go for it. She's not stupid, you know."

Maybe not, but I'm starting to think you are. Ryan's attitude was wearing on me. We had been over the plan half a dozen times over as many beers. I had considered it sober, with a buzz, and drunk. It passed each stage of my standard screening process. I had thought it through from everyone's perspective. It would work.

"She doesn't have to be stupid-just interested. Trust me; it will work." I didn't have to tell Ryan that Diane's interest was quite specifically directed at him. It had been for years and he'd known it for as long. He just had to be reminded that the scheme didn't depend on making a fool of her but upon letting it appear that she was making fools of us.

Apparently he was convinced, or at least interested enough himself. He turned to practical matters. "So when do we try it?"

Finally, a positive attitude. But not as positive as mine. "Now."

"Oh, Jesus. This is ridiculous. I'm not ready now. I have to think about this-how to approach it, what to do."

"You jerk," I said with mock venom. "There is nothing to think about. You just be there; the rest will take care of itself." I dropped some money on the table and initiated our retreat from the booth. Walking out past the projection screen, I realized that neither of us had even looked at the game we supposedly came to watch. Normally, you couldn't have gotten me away from the game. But this was not to be a normal day. We walked out into the bright light waiting for our eyes to adjust and our slightly pickled brains to recall where we had parked the car.

The drive home continued to tax my abilities to keep Ryan convinced-as well as my patience. "But Ron, what if Diane . . .?" "How are we going to . . .?" "Who is supposed to . . .?"

I was beginning to despise Ryan-a strange feeling in light of our current connivance. Finally, I put an end to it. "I'll worry about getting things started. Once it gets going, do you think you can handle it or will you need help from me."

My comment was carefully calculated to shut him up. It did. All he could manage to say was, "Well, you know her better than I do." Indeed I did. After six years of marriage and one kid, I ought to. I wondered if his comment had been designed for the same purpose as mine.

We drove on in silence-a big improvement, the son-of-a- bitch.

II.

I hadn't had a day like this for years: Chrissie at her Grandma's house, Ron off with Ryan for their male ritual of beer and football, and me lying in my lounge chair in the pool with a wine glass floating next to me. If it went on for hours, it would still end too soon. As it happened, it ended much too soon when I heard the car door shut and R & R come in the house. "Honey, where are you?"

Where am I, indeed? Where would you be on a the first day of peace and quiet you almost had in recent memory? "I'm in the pool. I'll be in in a minute." Kiss the moment goodbye. Oh well, my glass needed a refill anyway.

I rolled out of the chair, grabbed my wine glass and climbed out of the pool. I didn't dry myself off except by wrapping up in my robe and I decided to let my hair drip. One doesn't have to be formal for Ryan. In fact, he probably prefers me this way.

They were in the kitchen opening up a couple of cans of beer which were clearly not needed. "So, how was the football game?" I showed polite, insincere interest in their activities as I picked up the mandatory peck from each of them.

"Great game, great game. Do you want another glass of wine?" Ron was talking too fast. He does that when he is up to something: maybe he was angling for a night out with Ryan or a fishing trip with the guys, or maybe he was trying to get me in a good mood to tell me he had dropped a bundle on the game. I decided to wait and let his little plot work itself out-maybe doing what I could to make it hard for him. That's always fun.

The boys (my isn't that an appropriate phrase sometimes) headed for the living room and I, after grabbing a towel for my hair, followed. I paid little attention to their conversation when I first came into the room assuming that it was game-related. "Yeah, but if the officials hadn't blown the call in the third quarter . . ." and "Ah come on, he never had possession of the ball." I had little patience with their usual postmortem of the game.

It was a few minutes before the actual content of their conversation registered. They were having a funny (and probably phoney) disagreement over the effects of childbirth on the female body. Despite, or probably because of, the fact that Ryan's wife was now expecting their first, he was taking the pessimistic position. And my hubby, my Ron, bless his sweet heart, was defending the possibility of a pretty postpartum profile. He was probably just doing it to keep the argument going, but I loved him for it. And, whatever his motives, he was certainly right.

"You should listen to Ron, Ryan. He is, after all, in a position to know whereof he speaks." The more I thought about it the more I came to think that it took a lot of gall for anyone, especially Ryan, to sit in front of the mother of an eighteen month old girl, in her own home no less, and argue that once you had had a kid, you'd best make love with the lights out. Ryan had a lot of gall.

"That's right Ryan, look at Diane." Bless his heart again. "She looks just as good as she ever did."

"Yeah, she looks fine," but he didn't look-and he wasn't very convincing. "But you know what I mean: the wrinkles and the stretch marks; the saggin', baggin', flabby stomach and tits; and God knows what irreparable damage it does down below. I mean, well endowed as I am," he snorted, "I'm no match for a baby's head. And I can't believe that I'll be any match for Emily after this."

"Stand up, honey. And take of your robe."

Mind you, I appreciated Ron's defense of motherhood and his pride in my body, and it isn't a bad body by anyone's standards. Still I wasn't sure I wanted to be presented as a model of feminine beauty. (And to tell the truth, you could still see some stretch marks, though there certainly wasn't any "saggin'" or "baggin'".) I was almost mad enough to comply with my husband's outrageous demand. Almost.

"I'm not going to play your silly game." And I took a long slow sip of my wine.

"See, Ron." Then turning to me and lowering his voice as if this were our little secret. "No offense to you Diane. I think you look as good as anyone could after having a baby." He raised his voice and I knew that the other shoe was going to fall and that it was meant for Ron, not me. "But once a woman has a baby, she has a lot to cover up. She just can't ever look as good." Sure, Ryan, no offense.

And again, Ron to the defense. "You're full of shit." The defense wasn't very eloquent, alas. "Come on, honey, stand up."

I was more than mad enough now. Without saying a word, though I suspect that Ryan would have to be blind not to have known what I was thinking, I took a leisurely sip of my wine, slipped on my sandals and stood facing Ryan. Looking him right in the eye, I began untying by robe in a slow and, I hoped, seductive way. It seemed to be working. While my eyes were riveted on his, his were riveted a shade lower on me. I shook the rob off my shoulders and let it slide off my arms to the floor.

I was left with nothing on me but sandals, a swimsuit and two men's eyes. My suit was white and not risque by contemporary standards. Still, even Ryan couldn't deny that it didn't cover a lot. I had a medium dark tan (that, and early skin cancer, being just some of the benefits of having your own pool). I liked the contrast with the white suit.

Without breaking my stare at Ryan, I took a model's quarter turn to the right. He should be able to see that I was not "flabby" or "saggin and baggin." I could see that he did. I turned another quarter turn and looked away from him for the first time and toward the mirrored wall opposite him.

I detest mirrored walls; they're gauche. Ron and I had planned to take the mirrors off when we moved in three years ago but something else always took priority. I was glad we had procrastinated. Seeing myself now reconfirmed my opinion that I'm not bad looking for any age-especially for a 27-year old mother. An adequate proportion of my height is devoted to legs and they could still be on the cover of a "How to Banish Cellulite Forever" pamphlet. No "orange peel" here. From this distance I couldn't even see the remains of the stretch marks on my stomach which had only the slightest curve to it. And the curve of my hips was, if anything, better now than it had been before Chrissie was born. I'm sure that my breasts were not as firm as they had been five years ago. Still, since they were not really large in the first place, they hadn't started to sag. They were full and round and well-formed. I always thought that my nose was a little too long and straight; growing up I had envied girls with "cute" noses. But I had high and prominent cheekbones and pure blue eyes (now fringed by red from the chlorine of the pool-another "benefit") and dark brown wavy hair that looked almost black in its wetness.

Though I don't think of myself as vain, I enjoyed looking at myself in the mirror on this occasion. I was, after all, supposed to be the center of attention. But the value of the mirror wasn't just in its reflection of me but, also, in its reflection of Ron and Ryan. I studied them studying me. They were completely unaware of my view, and it was a most interesting one. They stole a sideways glance at each other and Ron gave a smirking wink. I wondered what that was all about. I didn't have to wonder long.

"Feel her stomach, Ryan. There's no flab there." I wasn't sure I liked the direction things were going. Up until now, I felt that this had been my show. Now I was starting to feel like a thoroughbred at auction. Check her teeth. You won't find anything wrong there. And look at those hocks. I wasn't sure I liked it, but I didn't do anything to stop it. "Go on," Ron urged, "I'll get us another round."

Ryan had an embarrassed grin on his face. The cause of the embarrassment was evident as he got up, even though he tried inconspicuously to rearrange the contents of his Jockeys. It looked like my little show had more of an impact than I had thought. I was surprised and flattered. I tightened up my muscles and let him feel my stomach, trying to keep one eye on the barometer in his crotch. Perhaps Ron was treating me like meat on the market but, when Ryan touched me, I knew he was no detached, meat inspector. Standing at my side, he put his left hand in the small of my back and put his right hand on my stomach. The hand on my back was warm, almost hot, but the other was ice cold from holding the beer. The contrast sent a charge through my abdomen that reverberated in my limbs.

Ryan was almost forgiven. He could be dense at times, but he was cute. He had curly, sandy-colored hair and greenish-brown eyes. And while you couldn't tell a thing by looking at his eyes, his thoughts were betrayed by his mouth. Anyone who took the time to study him in different moods (as I had) only had to look at his mouth to tell whether he was angry, sad, relaxed, bemused or embarrassed. (Right now, he looked tense and distracted.) He was muscular in a lean, wiry way and he had a great little ass. But best of all were his hands-those hot and cold hands.

But now the contrast between the hands was dissipating. He was pressing firmly but not hard on my stomach. I noticed for the first time that Ron had gathered the empties from the coffee table and was walking behind us towards the kitchen. A minor distraction. But as he passed us, he grabbed the tie on my swimsuit top and pulled the knot out. "No sirree. No saggin' here." And he walked on to the kitchen.

So that was what this was all about. Ron was overplaying it a bit though. Untying my top was like tossing Ryan the keys to his car. Ron had loaned me to Ryan. He was even helping to unwrap the present so that it would be clear that it was a gift. Very obvious. But perhaps Ron needed to do it this way.

He was gone now anyway, and Ryan's hand, now as warm as the one on my back, was under my top cupping my breast gently while he brushed his thumb across my hardening nipple. I felt that warm flush in my groin and started to lick my lips but checked myself realizing how trite that would be. It took great self-control to resist the compelling urge to reach down and grab his huddled mass that was yearning to be free. I wished that I could release his pants as easily as Ron had my top. But I wanted to be the passive spectacle just a bit longer. Well, almost passive. I reached down and untied the right side of my swimsuit bottoms, the back of my hand sliding against Ryan's bulging pants. The suit fell away from the right side but the string on the left side held it up-for a moment. Ryan slipped his left hand down on my butt and, with a flick of his finger, sent the suit to the floor. I shrugged my shoulders and sent the top to the same fate while I pursued my own.

It was time for a dramatic shift in comportment. As I turned towards him, I noticed that his shirt had snaps rather than buttons. How nice! In one almost smooth motion, I tore the snaps open with my right hand while unbuttoning his pants with my left. Down with the zipper. I stopped suddenly and stood close to him with my breasts just touching the hair on his chest. His breathing was barely controlled and I could tell by his mouth that he was tense as a tightwire. As if in slow motion, my hands crept around to rest, one on each buttock under his underpants. I paused once more, allowing him to anticipate, and then began easing down his pants. Suddenly, I changed the tempo again. I sank to my knees at once, taking the pants down to his ankles. As I did, I felt his penis spring free like a sapling closing a drawline trap. It dragged between my breasts, up my neck and past my chin. For a moment it bounced there reminding me of a bobblehead behind the back seat of a car.

Ryan stepped out of his pants. (Thank God he had taken his sandals off earlier. Underpants are bad enough, but shoes and such can destroy the rhythm of love completely.) And as I slid my hands back up to his buttocks, I felt his shirt fall too.

He was bursting, and the speed with which I had taken his pants off had led his body to expect no delay on the progression toward gratification. But I waited, moved slowly, and put my lips wetly and softly where shaft meets satchel. I moved up moistly and, while I held him in my hand and my tongue circumvented his circumcision, I glanced over at the couch.

Ron was back. I knew he would be; I was surprised only by the fact that I had been totally unaware of his return. He was staring with dilated pupils at his wife fellate his best friend. But it looked as if I were doing it to him. As I took Ryan's erection in my mouth, I could see Ron's grow. He reached down to shift his penis so that it was going up and his hand lingered there. When Ryan's hands came forward to gently cradle either side of my head, Ron abandoned all subtlety and pretense; he began kneading himself vigorously. His eyes were still directed toward the site of the adulterous act he had initiated, but there was an unfocused, distant look in them.

God designed us poorly when he made it so difficult to see our lovers' faces when we are having oral sex. There would be a lot more, and better, oral sex were it not for this design flaw. I enjoyed bringing Ron off by hand primarily for the chance to watch his face show the transitions from interest to arousal to urgency to climax and relief. It is very different watching that, causing that, controlling that when you are not going through it yourself. Ah, to be able to do that during oral sex.

But it was almost like doing that now. I was a good eight feet from Ron. He was getting a long distance blow job. And he was enjoying it. I was sure that there were a variety of emotions churning in his head. And I suspected that tomorrow he might have problems with that we had done today. But the predominant emotion in his head right now was voyeuristically inspired lust.

Ryan's hands pulled gently at my neck. Ron's presence receded and Ryan's supplanted it. He pulled me up to face him and as he did I felt his penis, now wet with my saliva, retrace its path: down my neck, over my collar bone, between my breasts. It came to rest, hotly, in the middle of my belly. I felt it pulsate. It pulsed with a life of its own and with the life given it by his undulating hips. He raised my chin between his thumb and forefinger and kissed me sweetly but passionately. He lay me down gently without taking his lips from mine. Pulling away a matter of inches, he moved on top of me between my legs. And staring deeply into my eyes, he entered me in one smooth stroke that felt a mile long. As I looked into his eyes, I saw that the game had turned dangerous. We were not just fucking, at least he wasn't. He was making love to me-in the fullest sense of the phrase. And, he was doing it in my husband's presence and with his consent. At least I thought Ron was still consenting, for now the coffee table blocked him from my view. Well, Ron could be slow; perhaps he hadn't noticed the change.

Fortunately, Ryan seemed to-perhaps he read the look in my eyes. He withdrew, pulled on me gently to roll over. His hand, reaching between my legs and up over my pubic bone, raised me easily to my knees. My face was still against the carpet. It was his turn now to call the dance. And he was being playful in his own ways. As he moved behind me, he let the tip of his penis rest so lightly against the lips of my vagina that I could barely sense his presence. But imagination filled in where sensation left off. He grabbed my hips and moved back and forth, letting his penis slide down under me and drag my clitoris very perceptibly. As he did this, he would flex and relax his muscles letting his penis sometimes rub hard against my clitoris and sometimes whisking lightly across like a leaf blowing over a lawn. It felt good and I thought that I had no particular desire that it end. But when he, of a sudden, pulled me onto him hard and fast so that I took his full length at once, it seemed like the answer to every desire I ever had.

Now, as he was moving in and out of me-sometimes rhythmically, sometimes not-I raised up slowly on my elbows, then on my hands. Looking down between my gently swinging breasts, I could see his wildly swinging balls flapping between my legs. It is a comical sight forever denied to men. (Even for gay men, the angle isn't right. And if they managed to contorted themselves so they could see, the view would still be obstructed.) Now was no time to laugh, so I tore my eyes away and looked up.

Ron was still sitting on the couch, though he had slouched down so much that he was almost lying. His pants were wide open and he, as they say, had a hold of himself. It looked like he had lubricated himself somehow. My guess was with beer. I couldn't imagine that that would be very effective, but he seemed to be doing okay.

I could see him looking at us then gazing off toward the ceiling then looking back at us-sometimes at Ryan, sometimes at me, and sometimes where we joined in unholy union. When I caught his eyes, I said nothing but licked my lips and tried to communicate a nonverbal invitation. I could take care of him too. Lord knows, I had seen it done in porno flicks. He looked at me for a moment but didn't make a move towards me. I didn't know if the invitation had been misunderstood or declined. I didn't spend much time thinking about it then. I was distracted elsewhere.

I concentrated on flexing and relaxing the muscles of my vagina. Ron thought I was very good at this, that I "felt like a damn milking machine" when I did it. (I had never asked him if he really knew. But he might have, having been raised on a farm.) And he was certainly right that I was pretty effective at getting cream.

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