Playing Around at Paul's Cabin

On a particularly warm fall afternoon, nearly half a year since I'd last spoken to Paul, I pleasured my wife cowgirl style on our avocado living room sofa, when suddenly a knock shook our front door, startling us enough to gasp in unison. It sounded again, and Mia rose off me, threw on her long tee shirt, and cracked the door just enough to greet our badly timed visitor. A few days earlier, Mia surprised me by dying her hair bright pink, and I heard Mitch's voice comment from the other side of the door, "Whoa! What's up with your hair? You've gone full-on Anime!" I hurriedly dressed, as Mia closed the door on him and snapped her fingers for her panties. They'd been discarded on the floor, so I tossed them with my toe while pulling on my own shirt. Her long tee hid her panties, providing enough modesty for Mitch, and so she let him in.

He sat on the couch, where only a minute earlier I'd ruthlessly banged Mia. I took a seat in the chair opposite him, while Mia grabbed a hair tie and pulled her pink curls into a high ponytail. With her arms raised, the bottom half of her yellow panties came into view. There wasn't a chance Mitch missed it, and it didn't take an Einstein to figure out what we were up to before he arrived.

Mia flopped on the couch beside him, dropping her legs over his lap.

He'd already apologized for the surprise visit, and as he shook his hair around in a troubling way, I asked him what was up.

"Nothing major. But I think you might be right about Paul."

"About what?"

"He's kind of an asshole."

"Uh-oh!" Mia tried to pinch his knee with her toes. "What are you boys fighting about now?"

I tossed a little cushion I'd held over my lap, and it bounced off her head. Her cheeks were flush, an indicator her arousal hadn't completely cooled, and a reminder my dick just moments ago rammed her little precious asshole. I probably looked much the same, and found it hard to concentrate as Mitch explained his situation with Paul.

Over beers, Paul tried to coax Mitch into a five year plan for expanding his hull cleaning business and hiring some help. Apparently Paul's recent rise at the firm meant dealing with clients wealthy enough to own yachts, and he felt he could line up a huge customer base. But Mitch dreaded being a boss or spending time behind a desk, and wasn't interested in planning anything past his next trip to Baja. Then Paul exploded. He reminded Mitch how he'd helped set up the business, which is true, and that he could legally claim a percentage of it, and thus turn it around whether Mitch liked it or not.

I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. "He's not interested in your business, Mitch. He's not taking it. Seriously, don't worry about Paul."

"I never thought he'd actually take it. I just wanna know why he suddenly started tripping so hard."

"The guy's obviously not as happy with his success as he hoped, and wants to drag you down with him. Like I keep saying, Paul can go fuck himself."

Mia shifted her butt, coming to rest on her side with her head propped on her arm. "You need to not keep saying that. He needs you two right now, but he's too proud to admit it, so he just gets mad."

She'd adopted a boys-will-be-boys attitude regarding the extremely sexist remark Paul made the last time we saw him, and had recently asked several times if I'd planned on staying mad at Paul forever, as if I was being childishly stubborn about it. It surprised me she could forgive Paul so quickly, especially considering how long she'd held a grudge against Mitch. But I think the fact I'd become so intensely angry made it easier for her to back away from it. And she was right––Paul's only means of letting people know something's wrong, is to act like a dick until they figure it out on their own. That's partly why Mia's directness bothered him.

Mitch tickled her foot. "What would Paul need from me? The dude has everything." He tickled her foot again, as if it might help jog her brain for an answer.

Mia's extremely ticklish, and slid off the couch. She then got up and walked towards the kitchen. "You guys are his friends, and you are his friends, so you need to figure it out."

When she slid off the couch, it lifted up her shirt and it became slightly tucked into the waist of her underwear, allowing us to glimpse her panty covered ass. Across the seat of her panties, written in bold Letterman print, arched the word "Porsche." We'd come to laugh about Paul comparing Mia's ass with a Lamborghini, and I found the underwear as joke.

Mitch turned to me, grinning. "Better buckle up, Andretti!"

I laughed, and then called him an asshole.

"Bro, you totally owe me for introducing you to that."

"I owe you a knock on the jaw for being such an asshole."

"So, is senorita Porsche giving us the Dr. Phil on Paul or what? Does our boy need us?"

"Paul probably just needs to get laid. I guarantee that bitch he's about to marry is straight up vanilla."

"Purty Presley's totally given sweet muffins, bro."

"Sweet, but not spicy."

"You gonna toss him the keys to your Porsche then?"

"Fuck are you ever a big, hairy, sandy asshole."

Two weeks later we drove Mitch's van to Paul's cabin, just two guys and a case of Dogfish Head beer. We'd eaten dinner at a roadhouse and planned on a trip for groceries in the morning. We arrived before Paul, and an hour later, we wondered if it would only be the two of us. Then he pulled up in his Land Rover, with barely so much as a word. He was in his same funk, but he came, and that alone meant something. He hurled his suitcase through his bedroom doorway, and then went straight for the liquor cabinet. He didn't fuck around, and poured a snifter of Cognac––the good stuff––the unknown French family's humble but priceless heirloom. Paul knocked it back so fast I doubt it touched his tongue, and then he joined us around the sitting area for a beer.

I'd climbed into the van that afternoon committed to the notion Paul would need to make the first move, but I couldn't take staring at his miserable face and finally asked if he and Presley set a date for their wedding.

"We did. It's never!"

That I hadn't expected, and all I could think to say, was sorry.

"Presley's the perfect lawyer's wife, but... Well, you ever been around someone who makes you feel uncomfortable in your own skin? Fuck it!"

He stood, gave Mitch and me a foggy glance, and strode to his room, beer in tow.

Mitch sat in the recliner and leaned forward towards me, and then quietly asked if Mia knew Paul and Presley had gone kaput. I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head.

Mia had planned the entire weekend for us. She got Paul on the phone and convinced him to go. She did it without my knowledge or consent, and later that week, she told me over dinner to not make plans for the weekend and take Monday off. I didn't have the slightest clue what was going on. That Saturday, she packed a bag for me and then Mitch showed up in his van around noon, just as she said he would. If she had known about Paul and Presley's break up, I really wished she would've told me before I climbed in the van.

While her intentions were good, I realized by morning the trip was a mistake. Around eight I phoned her on the landline in my bedroom, since cell signals were non existent that far into the woods. Turned out she had known about Presley. I then explained how it feels when a guy has all his ducks in a row, as Paul did, and then loses his girl and all the plans they'd made. The last people he wants to see are the one's who called him out for acting so high and mighty. That's just a recipe for getting mad, mad, and madder. She reminded me Paul hadn't been forced to come, and I had to give her that. She still apologized for not telling me, and in return I acted a bit like a dick and grumpy over being stuck there. That's when she volunteered to drive up and fetch me, and I could treat her to a bed and breakfast in the wine country. It sounded unbelievably great, and just knowing she was coming boosted my spirits.

Paul napped most of the afternoon, while Mitch and I ran through the woods howling like animals. That part was actually fun! I ended up telling Mitch Mia was arriving later. He wasn't real happy about being left with the gloomy bastard, but admitted he'd do the same. We returned to find Paul on the porch and he wondered why the fuck he'd heard elephants and monkeys in the woods. A moment later he blurted out, "If I could just treat a whore like a whore, I might be able to keep a wife who isn't one."

"The more you talk, Paul, the more it sounds like Presley just didn't do it for you. You're never going to fit in a country-club life style, not the Paul I know."

"Maybe! But I'd love to fuck her one last time. I'd teach her the ways, man. I'd show no mercy. I'd love to punish that pretentious snatch."

That had to be the darkest thing I'd ever heard Paul say. The gap between his worlds had unleashed a demon in him, and I had no idea how to respond.

Mitch did, however. "Yeah, I know how that is." He grinned at me stupid as he spoke, and I knew a joke was coming at my expense. "I wanted to give Mia one of those after we went splitzky." He then smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Wait a minute! What am I saying? I did nothing but punish that chick's snatch."

He bolted back into the woods with me after him, and Paul laughed hysterically from the porch.

About an hour later, Mia rolled up in our Lexus RX-10. She jumped out, her face hidden by big red sunglasses, and body barely hidden by a pink and chocolate, rib-high tank top and a very short, navy-blue skirt. She was glad to be out of the car and totally hyper. Mitch was asked to grab the ice-chest from the back, and I carried in her bag. Forgetting how cold mountain evenings could be, she put on the flannel shirt Mitch left hanging over the porch railing. It fit her like a raincoat, and she rolled the big sleeves high up over her tiny elbows.

I finally cornered Mia while she brushed her teeth, and asked if she'd be ready to head out soon. But after seven straight hours in the car, she'd figured on spending a little time cooking a small dinner for everyone and leave shortly after that. She'd already picked up some fish, vegetables and a few other things in Sacramento, and proceeded to take over the kitchen for the next hour. Only a few times a year will my vegetarian wife allow herself to eat fish, so I knew it would be an extra special meal. It smelled fucking great, especially considering I'd eaten nothing but Cheerios and a plain baloney sandwich.

Her twenty-four-year-old energy permeated the cabin, and electrified Mitch and I into walking along the porch railings from one side to the other without holding onto the top roof beam. With the fish in the oven, Mia took a break and attempted it with us. The setting sun behind the tall pines turned her pink hair bright red, and she looked gorgeous standing up there. Being several inches shorter than us gave her an advantage, she didn't have to tilt her head to keep from bumping the roof beam, and she actually balanced across the entire stretch, which made Mitch and I more determined than ever to succeed.

Her fish came out perfect, and we ate at the table like a family. Paul had become pleasant, and blathered on about a fishing trip in Cabo San Lucas. We just needed a pretty face to wake us up, and there could be no prettier face than Mia's. She and I discussed staying at the cabin, since eight-o-clock had crept up on us and we wouldn't reach the wine country for another several hours, making the trip rather pointless. Once we'd agreed to stay, she produced a bottle of Cuervo and insisted we all toast to a lifelong friendship.

It had dipped into the low forties, so Mitch carried in a few logs and built us a nice tall fire. Soon we had ourselves a toasty cabin, and that enticed Mia to remove the huge flannel shirt, leaving her in the skimpy outfit she'd arrived in. Between her low-riding, short skirt and a half-length tank-top was a long, snaking hourglass of tone flesh. She looked way too fucking hot not to stare. Her skirt teetered awesomely with her hips, and the skimpy tank top did nothing to prevent the slight jiggle of her titties. Paul clammed up at the sight of her, not the reaction I'd expected at all.

She finally sat on the couch-back with her legs over my shoulders, rubbing my neck and head as I methodically squeezed her little tootsies in my lap. She registered a little drunk, and leaned her head against mine to whisper. "I have a naughty confession to make. I made a bad promise. Don't be mad, but in order to get Paul out here, I had to agree to something."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Sex! Or actually a very specific kind of sex."

"You did not tell him he could partake in the Kind Bud, did you."

She sucked air through her teeth while giving me a guilty smile. I couldn't help but laugh, and she hit my shoulder. "You're not helping. I don't think he was serious, but what do I say if he mentions it?"

Jealousy surprised me like a broken guitar string, and for a moment I saw myself driving away with her before anything else was said––but then the feeling passed as quickly as it came. We'd swung once in the past, so I never gave any reason to believe I'd be upset by this kind of play. I asked her to pour me some tequila, and she did. By the time the gold liquid reached my belly, I'd favored the idea. I preferred her slutty at times, and obviously she did too.

"I hate to say it, babe, but you made your bed, now you gotta fuck in it."

"I'm being serious, Devin."

"So just do it, then. You slept with the guy once before, you didn't exactly complain about it afterwards, and it certainly didn't hurt our sex-life any."

"I can't. We're married now. What would he think?"

"Look, you've slept with every guy in this room––I guarantee they aren't going to judge your virtue. Although your performance might be up for review."

She punched me in the shoulder again.

"So you're telling me you're cool with some guy doing your wife?"

"No, not some guy––Paul, the guy I've shared everything with my entire life."

"You're weird."

This time I punched her gently in the shoulder.

Over the next hour she flirted, but made no progress in seducing Paul towards his bedroom. I even discreetly let Paul know that no matter what happened I was totally cool with it. He gave me a shit eating grin like never before. It was all up to Mia. She was drunk and ready, I could see it in her face, yet she kept hesitating. I'm pretty sure it was me. She'd never be able to step into his bedroom while I was there to see it happen.

Finally she accused Paul of being seriously tense, and had him lay on the buffalo-skin rug in front of the fire. She then sat on his butt and dug her fingers into his bare skin. There was no way not to see it as a mildly erotic act, but she looked too incredibly hot arching over him in the firelight for me to feel anything but excitement. And as her fingers spread across his tone back, she gave Paul a sense of peace Mitch and I could never provide.

Mitch teased he'd been feeling pretty tense lately, and Mia said he'd never been tense in his life.

"What you need is skin-cream. You're in the sun all the time, and in all that salt water. It's going to turn you into a sixty-year-old man."

"Damn, girl! Now I really am tense!"

Paul asked about her pink hair, and she explained, "I guess I just needed to convince myself I could still get away with it. Being a wife can make you feel old sometimes."

He laughed, "You're not even twenty-five, silly child."

"No shit," I agreed. "But I like my little punker-girl, so don't change it back just yet."

As much as I wanted to see this through, I knew I had to leave in order for her to feel comfortable taking the next step. I walked over to her, kissed her sweet lips, and told everyone I was going to pass out. She said she'd be right in, and sounded as if she meant it, but I suspected she'd change her mind once I'd vacated the room.

After lying in bed for fifteen minutes without any sign of Mia, I knew something was going down. I heard Paul pour them a tequila from his cabinet, informing them how Mia's Cuervo might get the job done, but his evokes passion. Shortly after, Paul blurted out to Mitch,, "Five dollars says Mia's new hair matches the color of her nipples." Shocked laughter erupted from both Mia and Mitch. But Mia wasn't the kind of girl to let unsolicited audacity go unanswered, and when I heard the guys howl and crack up, I was certain she'd flashed them her scrumptious titties. I know Paul, and he knew she'd pull something like that in retaliation.

I was hard as a rock, and began stroking my cock to the sound of them. And then I quickly dressed into warm clothes and climbed quietly out the window. I stepped onto the porch, and stood off to the side of the wide front window. I had the perfect view of the living room. I wouldn't be able to catch the real action in Paul's bedroom, but I could at least watch the frisky business leading up to it.

Paul escorted her by the hand and sat her on his lap. She then lifted her tiny tank top as he trickled tequila over both her nipples. Christ, was he actually going to do a nipple shot right in front of Mitch? Was she going to let him? To my amazement, he freely sucked her cute, little, tequilla-covered button into his mouth.

Mitch's head suddenly appeared along side Paul's, and he proceeded to clean her right breast. The two of them were being extremely thorough in lapping up the tequila. Extremely thorough! In fact, what should have taken a second had stretched into several minutes, with both of them practically engulfing her small pert tits.

Mia let them have at her, until finally she ran her hands through Paul's straight black hair, and breathlessly said, "No fair guys. You're getting me way too horny." She pulled Paul up for a kiss, and Mitch retreated back to the Lazy-Boy. As their tongues explored each other's mouths, Paul squeezed her right tit, which still featured a wet sheen from Mitch's tonguing.

From where he sat in the Lazy-Boy, Mitch called out, "Yo Mia, one more!"

As she pulled her skimpy top completely off, she also looked over towards Mitch, only to find him holding his dick in his palm as he dribbled tequila along the head. Mitch's cock had to be eight inches, and it wasn't even hard. He'd boasted in the past, but I'd never believed it.

"God, Mitch, you're such a jack-ass!" She grew a wicked look in her eye while sizing up Mitch and his exposed cock, and then, as if solely to torture Mitch for his behavior, she dropped off Paul's lap, and went for the zipper on his pants. A minute later she bobbed on his cock like a fiend.

His fingers were laced through her hair, encouraging her to swallow more with each downward plunge. "Come on Mia. Do it for me, baby." With nearly seven-and-half inches lodged into her svelte throat, she noisily struggled to gorge herself on the last damn inch.

Always the funny man, Mitch called out. "Wow Mia, the veggie cops aren't going to like you putting away all that meat."

Paul then lifted her head off his cock, and dribbled some tequila down his shaft. He let go of her hair then, and down she went, swallowing a good seven of his eight-and-half inches.

"So I pour tequila on my dick and I'm a jack-ass, but Paul does it and you totally lollypop him."

She pulled off with a glazed chin, "Sorry Charlie, but nobody asked to see your sad fella." She then went back to slobbering on Paul's bad-boy, and motioned with her eyes towards his bedroom. It looked like the show was ending for me, since Paul's room would be too dark to peek inside.