Entangled Pt. 3–Better
Note: Same warnings as Ch.2, only I must now add an apology to my lesbian readers. This story now crosses over, as Sarah and John find companionship in their love of Lucia. If I did not do this I could not make things right between all three characters. This story was originally meant to stay lesbian, but you wanted a happy ending. I kept it in the lesbian category so readers who found the other parts would be able to find this one.
I went to see John while I knew Lucia had Church. Since John never went, it was the perfect time.
“Oh, Sarah, Lucia is at church, as…you know.” He seemed surprised that I would stop by at this time, as I must have known Lucia wouldn’t be there. He gave me a sideways look and waited, though he shouldn’t have thought he’d have to.
“I came to see you,” the confirmation, but he still needed more.
“Can I come in?” I had dressed really provocative today, and now John knew it wasn’t for Lucia: though she liked femmes like herself.
I was wearing a low cut dress that clung right to my curvy figure, and barely covered the top of my thighs. I couldn’t risk no panties in this dress, so I wore a black lace thong with matching, sheer bra that you could see right through to the nipple. And my nipples were hard for him, this beautiful man, this kind and loving man. Black sheer thigh-high stocking were held up by a lacy garter-belt, and had an old fashioned seam down the back of the leg. My legs were elongated by some very sexy black heels, I would almost say they were fuck me pumps, and that’s exactly what I wanted John to do.
On top of this add my crimson lip stick and curled black hair, with amsterdam shemale crystal blue eyes accented by gold shadow, and to top it all off, a tiny silver cross in the middle of my large, pushed-up cleavage.
“Yes,” he answered after a long moment. “Come in.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” Always polite and refined, like his wife.
“Merlot.” I would have said “tea” if we were just talking about our mutual love object. Tea goes with anything from forced conversations between enemies to friends, but does not extend to sex. For sex and God you need wine.
“You want to drink wine at 10 am on a Sunday morning?” But he got it for me, and some for himself, not wanting to seem impolite at any moment.
“Your wife is doing it,” I added.
“My wife is not drinking wine,” he answered, “she is drinking blood.” I could have really jumped on that vampire analogy, especially considering what she had done to us, but instead we shared that understanding in silence.
“So, is there something you wanted to talk about?” He asked.
“I want to know how you’re feeling about the situation we’re in?”
“Honestly? I wish my wife had never met you,” he was blunt, exactly what I wanted: no holding back out of courtesy. “But I…I haven’t seen her this happy in years, since before you started seeing her. So in a way, I’m glad. I’m just…I’m still adjusting.”
“So am I. I find myself feeling guilty often. But I found something out because of this whole thing: I discovered something about you.”
I moved closer to him, sitting right next to him, making the same moves his wife did with me and maybe also with him.
“What’s that?” He now looked rotterdam shemale apprehensive, and I was savoring this part because I knew I was about to make things a little easier for him.
“I discovered that Lucia married such a beautiful man,” I told him, “such a wonderful, selfless man, and that is…so…”
I moved my mouth over his and kissed him so gently I could hardly stand it. He felt good, he tasted good, hell, he *was* good. And because he was good, he gathered himself and gently held me away from his body.
“Lucia would feel–“
“Like you felt? Like I felt?”
“I love her.” He said, futilely. “I wouldn’t want to hurt her this much.”
“I don’t want to hurt anyone either. I want to stop up our wounds” I swirled my finger in the wine and placed some on my lips. I leaned in again to kiss him, and he didn’t push me away this time. He let my tongue caress his, and with our tenderized hearts we began to heal each other. But it couldn’t be romantic or exploratory.
It was hard. We were hard. We were bruised and couldn’t let go. But we weren’t gentle. We were solid, pushing against each other, pushing love but pushing reality too. His fingers were rough and almost tore at my dress. He lifted it up quickly and I raised my arms over my head to help him. His mouth on my breasts was much rougher than Lucia’s: much rougher and masculine, hard and true. He took my cross in his mouth and sucked it with such devotion it almost knocked me over. I quickly undid the buttons on his shirt while he licked my neck.
The few hairs on his chest, the smell of masculine aggression from under his arms, the feel of his rough blog shemale and less skilled fingers on my battered flesh, and the sound of his deep grunts and moans, all combined to take me to a place far away from where Lucia could, far from the uncertainty and pain of what I was doing making love to a married woman, and into a land with no apologies or regrets.
He didn’t want my bra off, my panties, my stockings or my heels. My lipstick smeared across his mouth did nothing to deflect from his masculinity, and that made it sort of sexy. He fucked me with his naked, sweaty body.
He wasn’t a model: had a little pudgy stomach, and some extra skin in places easily toned by a few hours at the gym. His cock was average sized and average looking, but at least circumcised. And at least he was real, it wouldn’t have been so good with a model. He fucked me on that couch, pushing me over the arm and plunging so quickly into my warm, wet depths. He wasn’t so hard that I couldn’t hear his affection when he moaned: that human connection reaching through out grief and lust.
He reached around to finger my clit: so giving and not like other men I had been with. I knew I could cum with him without feeling he would give up before the end.
“I want you,” I forced myself to say instead of moaning. “And not just now, I want you as a lover.”
John didn’t’ answer, just kept fucking me. And just as he came inside of me, in such a satisfying way–satisfying, it seemed to him, and satisfying to me to hear, so much so that it invited my own orgasm–Lucia was at the door. And we didn’t make a move to pretend. We lay there, panting and coming down. I wished for a few more tender moments with him: now that we made love we needed to talk about him and I; about her and I; about her and him; about us.
She stood there stunned before us. I could see the pain on her face. She said nothing, but she quickly left.
to be continued.