The secret hours

Perhaps it was all that coffee yesterday, or my pent up frustrations after the German lawyer on Friday night. Whatever it is, I am awake at 5:30 on a Sunday morning. Wide awake. It is dark and still, just the gentle sound of a clock ticking. These are magical hours. The early hours when most people lie fast asleep, the city streets are empty. These are the hours you usually only see after being out all night, picking your way, bleary eyed, through the disheveled streets towards your bed. The hours when the secrets of the night before are laid to rest.

It was this time of the morning about a year ago in a far off place, that I stood, naked in my flat and watched as the Frenchman shut the door behind him. The American was already in the taxi outside. I could hear the Diesel engine through the open window. Then the sound of a car door slamming shut and they were gone. The chill of the dawn made me shiver and I climbed back into bed, hiding under the covers, my mind racing with images of the previous night.

It had started after the usual Thursday evening lecture. We went to the pub, others followed and before long we were a large group. I wore a pencil skirt and red tights (not stockings). The evening was entertaining, a lot of talk, discussion about the lecture, plans for the Easter vacation. It was my last lecture. I was leaving the country in 2 days time, to start a new life in a new country. The removal men had been the day before and my flat was empty, aside from the furniture it came with.

We were introduced, the American and I. His brother introduced us. His brother did all the talking. He looked on, smiled occasionally, but did not engage in the conversation directly. He was tall, curly brown hair and a beard. Striking blue eyes. A lawyer, apparently. He didn’t look like the other people there – all students and artists. I had met the Frenchman a few days before at the cinema, with his girlfriend. We had shared a drink after the film, a mutual friend had introduced us. He had a short, slight build and blond, floppy hair. He smoked cigarillos.

The evening progressed and a lot was drunk. I was being pursued by an older Austrian with a crazy moustache, the kind that curls up at the corners. As the pub closed I managed to escape the clutches of my unwanted pursuer and the Frenchman and American offered to walk me home. I accepted gratefully, fearing the Austrian would follow me home. We walked and chatted, arriving at my door. I invited them in for a nightcap, thinking nothing of it. I was used to entertaining people after closing time, as my flat was in the centre of town.

They came in, we opened a bottle of wine and I made some late night snacks. We sat by the open window, smoking and talking, accompanied by music. At one point, I went to the kitchen to get some more wine and when I returned the Frenchman said:

“We’ve been talking and we’d both like to sleep with you.”

I told them I was married (they already knew this from earlier conversations).

“That’s ok, we’re both in relationships too.”

It came as such a surprise. I really hadn’t expected anything to happen. I laughed and just nodded. The Frenchman put out his cigarillo and they both stood up. The American began to kiss my neck, the Frenchman ran his hands over my hips and ass. The butterflies in my stomach danced higher than ever before. Somehow, we moved, no, we floated from the living room into the bedroom next door. I don’t even know how it was physically possible, but whilst being kissed and stroked and pirouetted towards the bed, one of them had removed my shoes, another my top and then my skirt. Even my tights seemed to come off with ease. I just remember thinking “why didn’t I wear stockings! I usually do.”

They lay me down on the bed and undressed themselves. Now we were three people, naked in an empty flat, the music had stopped and the stillness of the night enveloped us all. The American knelt before me, his huge cock erect as he parted my thighs and entered me. It was the most delicious of penetrations. He was strong, lean and confident. The Frenchman stood beside me and watched. I leant over to take his (somewhat small) cock in my mouth. Writhing on the bed feeling two cocks inside me, I could hardly believe what was happening. They took it in turns to watch as one of them fucked me. I held eye contact with the one watching whilst being taken by the other. The American was virile and kept going and going. I can still feel him now, if I close my eyes.

The night was so surreal. It was very late and after a number of hours of fucking and watching they called a cab and left me standing naked in the hallway. Sometimes I wonder if it really happened. But then I close my eyes and feel the American hard inside me, the Frenchman looking down smoking his cigarillo.

It was my first threesome and it took about two weeks before I could close my eyes without flashes of that night flickering across my eyelids. They were secret hours. A secret I have now shared with you.



Filed under flings

3 responses to “The secret hours

  1. Pingback: The roll call « Serialadulterer's Blog

  2. Thank you for sharing. This is something I have dreamed of and fantasised about for many years.
    Soph x

  3. Pingback: The void « Serialadulterer's Blog

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