Two Women on a Back Porch, Discussing a Chair

You were already laughing when I sat down next to you on the back porch, your legs crossed at the ankle, a half-empty beer sweating against your thigh. The party had thinned out to the serious drinkers and the people who didn't want to go home yet. You nudged my knee with yours.

"You missed it," you said.

"Missed what?"

"Megan and Tyler. On the lawn chair."

I looked out across the dark yard. The citronella torches were still burning in a crooked line along the fence, and the lawn chairs were arranged in a loose semicircle around the fire pit, which had burned down to a low orange glow. Megan was still out there, legs stretched across Tyler's lap, her fingers tracing lazy circles on his bare chest. Tyler looked like a man who'd been through something.

"I saw some of it," I said. "From the kitchen window."

"You saw the end. You didn't see the whole thing." You took a sip of your beer and leaned back, that particular smile spreading across your face — the one that means you've got a story and you're going to enjoy telling it. "Barb and I were sitting right there. Ten feet away. We had front-row seats."

I settled into the chair beside you. "Tell me."

You set your beer down on the railing and turned to face me fully, tucking one leg underneath yourself. The porch light caught the line of your collarbone above your tank top, the faint sheen of sweat still on your skin from the afternoon heat. You smelled like sunscreen and beer and something underneath that was just you, that warm, slightly musky scent I'd been thinking about since we'd gotten dressed this morning.

"It started pretty innocent," you said. "Tyler was being Tyler — you know how he gets at these things. A few beers in and he thinks he's invincible. He was doing that thing where he flexes for no reason, grabs his own arms, talks about his gym routine. Megan was sitting in the lawn chair next to him, and Barb and I were in the two chairs on the other side of the fire pit."

"Barb was into it," I said. I remembered Barb from the garage — the way she'd watched us, the way her breathing had changed when things got intense. She had a way of leaning forward when something interested her, her lips slightly parted, her eyes unblinking.

"Barb was *fascinated*," you corrected me. "She leaned over to me after Tyler's third flex and whispered, 'This guy has no idea what's about to happen to him.' And I said, 'What do you mean?' And she just smiled and pointed at Megan."

I could picture it. Megan in that blue sundress she’d worn all day, the thin straps slipping off her shoulders, the fabric soft and faded and brushing her thighs when she shifted in the chair. Her dark hair was piled up in a messy knot, and she had that deceptively relaxed posture — like a cat that’s pretending to sleep but is actually tracking every movement in the room.

"So Tyler keeps going," you said, your voice dropping into that low, conspiratorial register that always makes my pulse tick up a notch. "He's talking about his PR on deadlifts, how he could bench press Megan if he wanted to, all this nonsense. And Megan just nods and smiles and sips her drink. She doesn't say a word. Barb leans over again and whispers, 'Watch. She's letting him dig the hole.'"

You shifted in your seat, and your knee pressed against mine again, but this time it stayed there. The warmth of your skin bled through the thin fabric of your shorts.

"Then Tyler says something stupid — something like, 'I could pin you down right now and you couldn't do anything about it.' And Megan looks at him. Just looks at him. And she says, 'You think so?' And Tyler laughs, because he thinks she's flirting. And Barb grabs my arm."

Your fingers found my forearm as you said it, mirroring the gesture, and I felt the slight tremor in your hand — the same excited vibration I'd felt that night in the garage when you'd watched me and Cheryl wrestling on the concrete floor. You liked this. You liked watching, and you liked telling me about it after, reconstructing every detail while your body remembered the heat of it.

"Megan stands up," you continued, "and walks around behind Tyler's lawn chair. And Tyler's still grinning, still thinking this is a game. She puts her hands on his shoulders and starts rubbing them, and he closes his eyes and leans back. And Barb whispers, 'Oh, she's good. She's really good.' And I'm watching Megan's hands move down his chest, and I can see her thumbs pressing into the muscles along his spine, and Tyler's making this face — you know that face guys make when they're trying to act casual but something is starting to feel really, really good?"

I knew that face. I'd made it myself, more than once, under your hands.

"Then Megan leans down and puts her mouth right next to his ear," you said. "I couldn't hear what she said, but I saw Tyler's expression change. His eyes opened wide, and his mouth kind of went slack, and his hands gripped the armrests of the lawn chair. And Megan laughed — this low, quiet laugh — and walked back around to the front of the chair."

You were close now, your shoulder against mine, your breath warm against my neck when you spoke. I could feel the heat building between us, that familiar slow-burn pressure that always started in my chest and moved downward.

His chair tipped backwards with a soft groan of plastic, and Megan closed the gap, straddling him. She was taller than him sitting like that, looking down at him, and he was looking up at her, and his hands were still gripping the armrests like he didn't know what to do with them. Barb said, real quiet, "She's got him. Look at his hands." And she was right — Tyler's knuckles were white on that plastic armrest, like he was holding on for dear life.

I imagined it — the angle of Megan's body over Tyler's, the way the lawn chair would have creaked under their combined weight, the way the firelight would have caught the curve of her back. My mouth was dry. Your hand was still on my forearm, your thumb now moving in slow circles against the inside of my wrist, right over the pulse point.

"Megan starts moving," you said, your voice even lower now, barely above a whisper. "Not fast — slow, deliberate, like she's in complete control. She's got her hands on his chest, and she's rolling her hips, and Tyler's head falls back against the chair. And Barb and I are just sitting there, ten feet away, and I can hear everything — the creak of the chair, his breathing, the little sounds she's making. And Barb leans over and puts her mouth right against my ear and says, 'Are you getting wet?'"

Your own mouth was against my ear now, your lips brushing the skin just below my earlobe, and the question hung in the air between us — Barb's question to you, and your question to me, and the echo of it reverberating through every nerve in my body.

"I didn't answer her," you said. "I just nodded. And Barb laughed, soft and low, and said, 'Me too.'"

Your hand moved from my wrist to my thigh, your fingers splaying across the top of my leg, and I could feel the heat of your palm through my shorts. I shifted in my chair, adjusting, and you noticed — of course you noticed — and your hand moved higher, your fingertips tracing the line of muscle along my inner thigh.

"So Megan pulls Tyler's shirt up," you continued, your breath hot against my neck now. "She pulls it up and over his head, and he lifts his arms to help her, and when his arms come down, she catches his wrists and pins them to the armrests. Just like that. And Tyler doesn't fight it — he just lets her, and his chest is heaving, and the firelight is playing across all that gym muscle he's so proud of, and Megan is just sitting on top of him, holding him down, smiling."

"Fuck," I said.

"That's what Barb said." You laughed softly against my throat, and I felt your lips press against the pulse point there, a quick, hot kiss. "She said, 'Fuck, look at that.' And then she said, 'I need to get laid.' And I said, 'Same.' And we both started laughing, but we couldn't take our eyes off them."

Your hand was at the waistband of my shorts now, your fingers tracing along the edge of the fabric, dipping just below it and then retreating. I was hard, had been hard since you'd said the word "straddled," and you knew it — you could feel it through the thin material, and you were deliberately avoiding it, keeping your touches light and peripheral, building the pressure the same way Megan had built it with Tyler.

"Megan leans down," you said, "and kisses him. Long and slow, her hands still pinning his wrists, her body pressing against his. And I can see her hips grinding against him — not fast, just that slow, deliberate pressure — and Tyler makes this sound, this desperate, helpless sound, and Barb grabs my hand. Not my arm — my hand. She laces her fingers through mine and squeezes, and we're both sitting there holding hands, watching Megan take this boy completely apart."

I reached for you, my hand finding the back of your neck, pulling you closer. You resisted for a moment — just a moment — keeping the tension in your body, keeping the story going.

"Megan lifts her skirt," you said, "slowly, like she's unveiling something sacred, and she pulls it up over her hips, her belly, her chest, and then she drapes it over Tyler's face so the fabric falls around him like a curtain. And Barb and I can't see his face anymore — just the shape of his head under that thin cotton, just the way his hands are gripping her thighs — and Megan scoots forward, deliberate, positioning herself so it's obvious her cunt is right over his mouth, and she's not wearing anything underneath. And Barb's breath catches, and she says, 'Oh my God, she's really doing it,' and I can feel my own pulse in my throat, watching Megan settle her weight down, watching Tyler's hands slide up to her hips and pull her closer."

Your hand finally moved, your fingers sliding beneath the waistband of my shorts, and I hissed through my teeth at the contact — your warm, sure grip closing around me. You stroked me once, slowly, base to tip, and I had to grip the armrests of my own chair to keep from thrusting up into your hand.

"Megan takes Tyler's hands," you said, your rhythm matching your words — slow, deliberate, controlled, "and puts them on her breasts. And he touches her like he's been given permission to breathe again, his hands all over her, and she tips her head back and pushes her chest into his hands, and she's still moving her hips, and I can see the shape of him through his shorts — hard, straining against the fabric — and she's grinding right on top of it."

"Jesus Christ."

"And Barb says, 'I think she's going to make him come right there in his pants.' And I said, 'Would you blame him?' And Barb laughed and squeezed my hand harder, and I realized I was squeezing back, and that my thighs were pressed together, and that I was so wet I could feel it through my shorts."

You freed me from my shorts completely now, your hand moving in long, slow strokes, your thumb circling the head on each upstroke, spreading the slickness that had gathered there. I was gripping the armrests just like Tyler had, my knuckles white, my breathing ragged, and you were watching my face with that same calm, satisfied expression I imagined Megan had worn.

"Then Megan stands up," you said, "and Tyler makes this sound like he's been abandoned — this lost, desperate groan. And she looks down at him and says something I couldn't hear, and he nods. And she reaches down and pulls his shorts down, right there in the yard, and his dick is just — out. Hard and flushed and curving up against his stomach, and Barb says, 'Oh my god,' and I'm thinking the same thing but I can't say anything because my mouth is dry."

I groaned, and your hand tightened around me, your pace increasing just slightly. You were breathing harder now too — I could feel it against my neck, the warm rush of each exhale, the slight catch in your throat when I moved my hand from the back of your neck to your thigh and squeezed.

"Megan pulls her own shorts off," you said, "and she's not wearing anything underneath, and she straddles him again, and I can see everything — the way she reaches down between them, the way she wraps her hand around him, the way she positions him and then sinks down, slow, so slow, and Tyler's whole body goes rigid and he makes this sound —"

You demonstrated the sound, a low, shaking exhale against my skin, and I almost lost it right there. My hand tightened on your thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and you moaned softly in response, your hand faltering for just a second before resuming its rhythm.

"And she starts riding him," you said, and your voice was rough now, the storytelling fraying at the edges, the words coming out in breathless fragments. "Slow at first, then faster, and the lawn chair is creaking and groaning, and Tyler's hands are on her hips, and she's got her head thrown back, and Barb and I are just — sitting there, watching, holding hands, both of us so turned on I could feel the heat coming off her skin."

I turned your face toward mine and kissed you, hard and deep, swallowing the rest of the sentence. You moaned into my mouth, your hand still moving on me, and I reached between your legs and found exactly what I expected — soaked through your shorts, the fabric clinging to you, the heat of you radiating through my fingers.

You broke the kiss, gasping. "Do you want to know how it ended?"

"I want you to show me how it ended."

You laughed — that low, wicked laugh — and released me long enough to stand up and step out of your shorts. No underwear, just like Megan. You straddled me in the porch chair, your knees on either side of my hips, and I could feel you — hot and slick and ready — pressing against me through nothing but air.

"Barb leaned over," you said, positioning yourself above me, your hand wrapping around me again, guiding me to your entrance, "and she said, 'I think she's going to make him beg.' And then she said —"

You sank down onto me, slow, so slow, and my words dissolved into a sound that Tyler would have recognized. You were wet and tight and impossibly hot, and you took all of me in one long, deliberate descent, and then you stopped, seated fully, your weight pressing down, your hands finding my shoulders.

"She said, 'I bet Larry would beg for you,'" you whispered.

"You told her that?"

"I told her everything." You rolled your hips, a slow, grinding circle that made my vision blur. "About the garage. About the wrestling. About what you look like when you're trying to hold back."

"Fuck."

"She wanted details. I gave her details." Another roll of your hips, and I could feel you clenching around me, rhythmic and deliberate, the same controlled pressure Megan had used on Tyler. "I told her about the noise you make when you come. I told her about your hands. I told her —"

I grabbed your hips and thrust up into you, and you broke off with a sharp cry, your head dropping forward, your forehead pressing against mine. Your breathing was ragged now, the control slipping, the storyteller becoming the story.

"What else did you tell her?" I asked, my voice rough.

"I told her —" You moved, rising and falling, finding a rhythm that was faster than Megan's, more urgent. "I told her you're the best fuck I've ever had."

I pulled your tank top over your head and took your breast in my mouth, my tongue circling your nipple, and you arched into me, your hands gripping the back of the chair on either side of my head. The chair creaked under us — the same plastic groan I imagined Tyler's chair had made — and somewhere in the back of my mind I thought about Barb and you sitting in the dark, holding hands, watching, getting wet together, and the image sent a bolt of heat through me that made me thrust harder.

You met me thrust for thrust, riding me with the same confidence Megan had ridden Tyler, your body open and shameless and fully in command even as it shook with the force of what we were doing. I could feel you getting close — the trembling in your thighs, the way your breathing hitched and caught, the way you clenched around me tighter and faster.

"Barb asked me," you gasped, "if you'd ever — let her watch — again —"

"Whatever you want," I said, and I meant it, because you were clenching around me and your orgasm was building and I could feel mine right behind it, a wall of pressure about to break.

"Next time," you said, "I want her — right next to us —"

"Done."

You came with a sound that was nothing like Tyler's desperate groan — it was full and loud and unafraid, your whole body seizing and shuddering, your nails digging into my shoulders, your pussy clenching around me in waves that pulled me over the edge with you. I came hard, buried deep inside you, my hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks, my own groan muffled against your chest.

We stayed like that for a long time — you in my lap, me still inside you, both of us breathing hard, the porch chair creaking ominously beneath our combined weight. The citronella torches were guttering. The party was finally, truly over.

"So that's the lawn chair reckoning," I said eventually.

You laughed, your breath warm and damp against my hair. "That's my version, anyway."

"How much of that actually happened with Megan and Tyler, and how much did you make up?"

You lifted your head and looked at me with that smile — the one that means you've gotten exactly what you wanted and you're already thinking about next time.

"Wouldn't you like to know," you said. And then, quieter, your lips against my ear: "Barb's coming over tomorrow afternoon. I told her you have a very sturdy dining room chair."