One Night At Home 2

Ricky has the night to himself. Game on. Feet kicked up. Beer getting warm on the table. Then the front door cracks open. Francys walks in, home hours early, that look in her eye that says she wants trouble and she wants it now. She grabs a silk tie off the chair, wraps it around his eyes, tight, no argument. Her hands go straight for him, down the front of his jeans, pressing hard, then sliding under his shirt to drag fingernails over skin. She squeezes. She strokes. Every touch feels like she has three pairs of hands at once, hungry and cocky and unafraid. He feels the heat spread low, blood rushing, and for a second all that exists is fabric, pressure, the faint scent of her perfume on his neck. Blindfold comes off and Ricky blinks, catching his breath in the half-dark. Francys grins. Kneeling beside her is another woman, mouth already parted, ready to show him exactly what two mouths and four hands can do when they stop asking for permission.