Happy Wives, Happy Lives

Kimmy and Scarlett sat stiff in Kenzie’s office, legs crossed, mouths tight. They loved each other, but the ache was raw: both wanted a finger, a tongue, a cock in the ass, and neither would give. It pulled every other wire in their life. Kenzie watched them, felt the same dead weight in her own house, and the idea slid out before she could stop it. “I fuck you both,” she said. They blinked. One laughed, the other stared, but the room was small and the air was hot and they were desperate. Agreement came out hoarse, almost a whisper. That night the bed smelled like three kinds of perfume and sweat. Kenzie’s hands moved first—slick lube, slow pressure, then the stretch and the groan when her fingers slid inside them at the same time. Kimmy rocked on Scarlett’s thigh while Scarlett clawed at the sheets, both of them panting with their faces turned toward each other, foreheads touching. Kenzie worked her tongue over one tight ring, then the other, trading places, never leaving either empty for long. They sounded hungry, filthy, happy. Phones rang—her wife’s name lighting the screen—and Kenzie answered without pulling out, voice steady while her hips kept thrusting a strap into Scarlett’s ass. The call ended, the line dropped, and they went back to the work, deeper, louder, sweat running. Fingers, tongues, silicone. Moans cut short by sudden laughter when someone slipped, then picked up again, frantic and slick and not finished yet.