I Can’t Believe I Fucked Two Guys!

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By Lauren McAllister 

It was a hot, feral Thursday night in the vast untamed metropolis.  I was home, washing my locks and dutifully polishing off an economy-priced bottle of Australian Cabernet.  It tasted like it had been fermented in a dyspeptic kangaroo’s pouch but there was no way I was venturing out at such a dis-commodious hour just to procure a better vintage.  Alas, as I’m waiting for my hair to dry so it doesn’t look like I bought it at Phil Specter’s estate sale, and drinking my “Aussie Awful,” I decided to catch up on “Game of Thrones.”  Needless to say, after all that incest, betrayal, murder, gratuitous nudity and naughty midgets, I began to get the urgent urge to take a quick skate around my pink rink.  So, now I had a decision to make.  Do I saddle up for an extended ride on my trusty “Rotating Rabbit” or do I go out and obtain a member of the opposite sex?  I pondered and I puzzled and looked to the heavenly stars for guidance.  Or I might have flipped a coin, I don’t quite remember.  I think I have come to realize why they refer to a lady’s lap-lunch a “pussy.”  Even if you own one, it’s really fucking hard to figure out what it wants to be fed.  I retrieved my mechanical stud from the sock drawer to see if it looked appealing.  It sort of resembles a big pink robot-penis that has grown little T-Rex arms.  I kissed its little Darth Vader-helmet-shaped head.  It had been very, very good to me over the years and it never, ever sulked like a four-year-old if I didn’t swallow every last drop.  I wanted it to feel appreciated, damn it.  Alas and alack, it turns out I’d pretty well exhausted the Evereadys during a “True Blood” marathon.  I flipped the glory switch but it just made this dying-bee sort of a sound.  There wasn’t enough juice left in that thing to make Paris Hilton cum.  I tried my emergency flashlight but I’d already robbed those out from the last time I watched Spartacus.  Cripes!  I’m either going to have to watch less TV or start buying batteries at Costco.  Problem!  I was sadly lacking sufficient vibratory voltage for even a small bout of foreplay, but if I wasn’t prepared drag my derriere down those cold and darkened streets for a better cab, I certainly wasn’t going to do it for a lousy six-pack of C-cells.  I still had my own fingers of course, but isn’t using someone else’s hand always more enjoyable?  Especially if it’s the doorman at a pricy hotel or someone wearing a mouse costume at a Chuck E. Cheese outlet.  Okay, so perhaps I have an inquiring mind when it comes to stuffed and animate corporate iconography, but who hasn’t wanted to squat themselves down on Dipsy’s big green head appendage?… perhaps I’ve said to much.

Luckily, when you’re relatively cute and keep the old bod in fairly good trim, a gentleman’s genital offerings can be accessed without a great deal of fuss or bother.  I just needed the right dress and the nearest upscale guzzle-barn. 

So, it was off with the sweats, fluff up the hair, on with something black and scandalously skimpy and out the door.  Yes, some lucky guy was going to hit the Jezebel jackpot tonight.  Unfortunately, by the time I got my barely-covered Jezebel ass to the hostelry in question, I espied nary a fellow appealing enough to warm up the soup-maker for.  The top tier of hunky-horndogs had already paired off with someone or they were far too shit-faced to be physically capable of the services required.  You have to get to the meat market early, girls, if you want to get the best cuts of beef!  I stealthily scanned the room for the leftover penis-pickin’s and sighed.  It didn’t look good.  I was just about to head on back home to jab-it-with-the-Rabbit when this rather alluring piece of pant-candy at the far end of the bar caught my eye.  Besides the pants, he also had a matching pair of pleasantly shaped arms poking out of his short-sleeved t-shirt.  Yes, he definitely had what it takes to make my slice feel nice.  I was surprised that none the obviously-dressed barracudas in the room (besides me of course) had sniffed out this pretty-buff bucket of chum.  Time to order a drink! 

So, I sashay up to the weary-eyed publican and order something vaguely red from California-adjacent and I wait.  And then I wait some more.  Finally, I casually adjust my gaze in his direction.  He gives me this shy little smile and I give him my “Come over here and I’ll straddle your thing” look, but his feet remained bolted to the ground.  What was it about a hot chick and drinking alone at the bar near closing time that this dude didn’t get?  I was beginning to think he was either gay or had a plate in his head.  I take a good swig of the red, just in case that was all the fun I was going to get for my troubles that evening.

“Are you here alone?” I heard a faint voice inquire from the direction of my hunky-hombre. 

I turned back towards him.  Not too “Come fuck me” quick and not to “Go fuck yourself slow.” 

“At the moment,” I said, oh-so-promisingly.  The ancient rutting ritual had begun.  I only hoped he was up to his end of the Mating Malanguena.

“Oh,” he said somewhat disappointed.  Christ!  We’d only been metaphorically dancing for two seconds and he’d already stepped on my foot.  “I have a friend.  He’s in the can.”  He awkwardly pointed his head in the direction of the tavern’s aromatic facilities. 

Hmmm.  How badly did I want to get laid?  I pondered my position over another sip of my substandard varietal and took a glance up at the establishment’s rather fetching antique clock.  Hmmm.  The brazen hussy approach was probably the only practical course of action due to severe time constraints.  I hinted in the strongest “ladylike” terms, that if he gently jettisoned his bathroom buddy, his pant-pork was in for a night of unimaginable delights.  He continued to smile awkwardly and occasionally look at his shoes.  I glanced over at the mirror, just to see if I was wearing what I thought I was wearing.  Yep, that was “the me” I had in mind alright.  A stone fox wearing attractive but easy-to-remove clothing.  What the hell was wrong with this guy?

Finally, this jasper’s quaffing companion returned to his Anchor Steam.  Nice enough gent, I suppose, but my incest-and-midget-aroused loins were far more interested in Bachelor No. 1.  (At least, I assumed they were bachelors.) 

“My name’s John, by the way.”

“And I’m Tom,” his seemingly unshakable companion added.

Their names were actually “John” and “Tom”?  Yikes!  Could the spawn of such unimaginative parents actually be any good in bed?  

“And I’m Lissa,” I smiled, trying to figure out what the hell to do. 

A little mundane conversation passed back and forth.  “Gee, didn’t the Ravens look good this year?,” “Yes, you definitely have to be careful how much riboflavin you take at one time” and “Taxis aren’t nearly as expensive as you’d think.”  That last informational tidbit was mine and aimed at Tom but alas, he failed to glom my intent and catch one. And all my meaningful-glances, beseeching of John to hit the ejector button on his wingman were apologetically rebuffed.  Perhaps Tom had pulled him out of a burning building or something when they were nine and he felt a debt?  Maybe they shared more than the odd casual drink together?

I needed time to think and the barkeep was beginning to turn the chairs upside down on the unused tables.  Plus, Tom and John’s Anchors had run out of Steam.  I played the helpless female and asked if these two strong gentlemen would walk her safely home.  Perhaps one of them would get run down in the street and I could fuck the other one on the way to the hospital.  It was possible. 

As I hobbled along in my “Schtup-Me” Walter Steigers, I quite warmed to these two gallant but possibly gay galoots.  They were funny – to a point – and clumsily charming.  And I didn’t pick up the vibe that their every word and motion was aimed at ramming home their boy-bacon.  I’m sure hoped it was, but I just didn’t pick that up. 

The next problem to consider, if I did decided to go through with this absolutely insane endeavor, was how the hell does one pull something like this off (literally and figuratively)?  I pretty well knew how to get one guy naked and have him believe that the whole thing was his idea, but two?  I’d never done a threesome before where the sausage outnumbered the pie.  As we reached my apartment, I decided to just invite them in for a nightcap and let them figure it out. 

A half an hour later… they hadn’t figured it out.  As fun as it was to watch these two still depressingly-panted poltroons drink the last of my plonk, I decide to take one last stab at receiving unholy ravishment.  When all else fails in enticing a slow-witted swain to seize the coital cup, a damsel can always make the world’s dumbest bet. 

“I wonder if Ray Lewis regrets retiring a year before the Ravens won the Super Bowl,” I blithely tossed out into the room.

“Oh no,” says John, who I know is a huge Ravens fan, “Ray Lewis didn’t retire until after he won the Super Bowl.”

“No way,” I giggle derisively.  “I can remember him announcing that he was quitting the game way before the playoffs.”

“He did, but he said he was going to quit at the end of the 2012-2013 campaign.  In fact, he led the NFL is post season tackles.”

The hook was set.

“You are so full of shit.”

“I am not.”

“John’s right.” Tom timidly offered.

They were now falling into my about-to-get-well-laid trap.

“You guys are both on drugs or something.”

“I actually have the game at home on DVD.”  Tom nodded to confirm that this was true.

“Okay, I’ll make you a bet.  If I lose and Ray Lewis did play in the Super Bowl, I will suck both your cocks.  How’s that for being sure?”

There was a they’d-like-to-make-me-pregnant pause in the conversation.  These two were looking less gay by the second.

“What if we lose?” John queried.

But you’re not going to lose, are you?!!  I’m completely and totally wrong and you of all DVD-owning people know that!  I rummaged through my mind for anything at all.  “Okay, if you lose, you have to come all the way back here tomorrow and make me breakfast.”

I grabbed by trusty Vaio and squiged it down in between them on the couch.  “I’d like coffee and orange juice along with eggs and crispy bacon,” I rattled off as the computer fired up.  “And they have these really nice muffins at a shop down the street.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.  “Oh dear.” I opined with an faux-embarrassed blush. 

“You don’t have to… you know…” John stupidly offered.

“Yeah,” even more stupidly, added Tom.  “We’d understand, cause…”

“No, a bet’s a bet,” I turned honorably to face them and then rolled my eyes.  “And I suppose you want me to be naked, while I’m doing it.” Before either one of them could be infuriatingly polite and tell me that it wasn’t necessary, I had that dress off and my bra unhooked.  All conversation in the room now surceased as they gazed, somewhat slack-jawed at the bounciest part of my womanhood.  I pretended to shyly smile and gave the ladies a quick fluff up with my hands.  Then I took the lacy wrapping off my girly gift basket.  They both stared at me like they’d just seen a fully-shaved ghost.

“You know it would really help a girl out in a very awkward situation like this if you could at least undo your own pants.”

From that point on, they were amazingly eager to help a girl out.  Trousers were at half-mast before I could blink.  I did have a few last second qualms as I gazed upon the double-helping of impressively aroused man-missiles awaiting lift-off but it was a little late to call off the launch, so down on my knees I went.  Yes, in front of cute John.  But I did grab a hold of Tom’s tall one with my left hand as I dropped my mouth onto his friend.  Now, I was starting to enjoy myself.  And I wasn’t the only one!  A few more enthusiastic head bobs and I leaned over John’s leg and gave a few inclusionary sucks to his patient pal.  It was kind of fun for awhile but it was a little hard on my neck and I really wanted to concentrate on the job in front of me.

“Hey Tom,” I said as demurely as a girl with two dicks in her hands could be.  “You know, if you didn’t want to wait so long, it’d be okay if you went inside me from behind.”  I gave him a little “back there” gesture with my head.  At last, everyone seemed to be on the same wavelength.  I will caution you gals out there who have seen this “spit roast” maneuver in say, The Game of Thrones, that it’s no quite as easy as it looks.  Everything was going gangbusters while Tom was rubbing his coochie-cannon up and down my vulva to gain easy entry into the moan mansion and it got really interesting as he slowly slid it up into me.  The sensation was an absolute slippery, tingly delight.  And on the other end, cock had never tasted so good.  It was when Mr. T. reached around to avail himself of my chest chaps and proceeded to pump my starboard bow with alarming alacrity that I was immediately transformed from a highly skilled oral sensualist into a gagging, spluttering sword swallower.  His eager thrusts were driving John’s fulsome phallus down into my apoplectic esophagus.  This sudden and unexpected lesson in the art of deep-throating had to be brought to a hasty conclusion before lives were lost (not to mention my vocal chords).

I quickly turned my head to the rear to see if I could offer any handy tips to Tom on how to less-murderously ply his amorous wares.   

“Hey,” I warmly smiled.  “You’re doing a great job back there and you can play with my tits till your arms fall off later on but, if you could just grab onto my hips and hold them steady while you pound me, I won’t accidentally bite through John’s joint.  From then on, things went much, much better.  I actually had a pretty decent climax.  I moaned and spasmed like I’d eaten a bucket of toxic chicken.  With John’s skirt-squirter orgasming in my fist and his hairy balls resting in my eye sockets I thought, “Yeah, this is considerably more enjoyable than that Rabbit.”

Then I let them switch up, just to be fair, but after another ten minutes or so of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, I suggested we all might be a little more comfortable on my bed. 

A few minutes of mattress surfing was all it took to convince me that these guys were certainly not gay or even bi.  While they couldn’t get enough of my nether naughties and lickity lumps, they meticulously maneuvered themselves around so not a molecule of their bodies ever touched no matter how close their proximity to one another.  When I did a threesome with another girl?  She had her face down between my legs before I had my shirt off.  John and Tom each took turns fucking me twice and then we all fell asleep in a big sweaty-humpy mess.

When I woke up the next day, I felt like I’d been hung up like a carpet and beaten by Hungarian widow.  The guys were gone, just like I thought they would be.  It’s amazing how big lumbering oafs can be as quiet as elves in slippers when departing a lady’s boudoir “the morning after.”  Probably just as well.  I was appropriately sore in a bodily location that a proper lady would not even admit she possessed.  God, my cunt hurt.  I was just about to not get up and do something productive when the bedroom door swung open.  A callous, red-faced seducer of women forced to return to the scene of the crime to retrieve his wallet or keys? 

I have to admit that I have become a somewhat jaded individual by years spent wading through the harsh realities of modern-day city life, but this left me gobsmacked.  There stood my tag-team lovers holding a big breakfast tray.  Upon it was all the blessed provender of the morning hour.  Juice and coffee, along with extra-crispy bacon and eggs and even those gourmet muffins from down the street that I’d so brazenly demanded as part of my theoretical winnings.  And flowers!  These weren’t just a couple of bar-hopping assholes out to bang some horny tart who subscribed to too many pay television channels.  They were really nice guys!

“We just wanted to say thanks.” John led off.

“Yeah Lissa, for last night.  It was really wonderful.”

Guys! Guys!  You already fucked me, you don’t need to do any of this!  They were probably breaking about 17 sacred rules from the official horndog handbook.  Tom even remembered my name!  I smiled a big one and tapped the bed.  The coffee was absolute shit but I drank it down like it had just dropped out of Juan Valdez’s ass.  Then, they asked me out on a date!  Both of them.  I couldn’t help myself.  I grabbed the KY from the nightstand and gave them each another go at filling up my joy jug. 

I’m a pretty cute girl, so I don’t have much experience dating nice guys – especially two at once – but the whole experience has been fantastic.  A little physically taxing at times, but fantastic nonetheless.  One of my favorite things to do is to get them to stand next to each other and I put both of their dicks in my mouth at once.  Man, do they fucking hate it!  But they’re too polite and appreciative to say anything.  They look down at me but only as far as my nose.  They can’t bear to watch me rubbing their cute engorged heads together as I slurp and lick, seemingly oblivious to the massive psychic trauma I’m causing.  After a few minutes of homo-phobic excruciation, I let the embarrassment twins off the hook and give them each a thorough totally separate knob washing.  I’m planning to get them legless one night and ask for a DP.  The idea of their pant soldiers banging up against each other inside me really pops my cork.   Blush.  I’m so naughty sometimes.

Taking John and Tom home for Thanksgiving Dinner was a scream.  My father just kept sighing and shaking his head over an uneaten drumstick but my dear old Gran gave me her old diaphragm, in case the boys wore mine out.

I even let those two sweet knuckleheads move in with me a few weeks ago.  

It’s worked out great.  They do the dishes and the laundry and the shopping and the cleaning and I do them.  Everyone seems to be happy with the arrangement.  In the evenings John (God, he’s a sport!) gets down on his knees and eats me out, wearing a Tyrion wig, while I watch “Game of Thrones.”  Tom gives me a skull massage, just as I cum.  Fuck!   Now, that is appointment television!

I’m actually thinking of donating my Rotating Rabbit to charity.  Or…maybe I’ll just give it to Gran for Christmas.

The end!

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Copyright Lauren McAllister 2022

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