The spy (15)

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. All I remember is the powerful hands worshipping every inch of me. And no, I don’t mean the insides of me. The session was mostly the outsides, but it felt as heavenly as when I had that cock or that tongue pleasuring me. When I think I’ve had the best of pleasure, they keep surprising me with new things.

For example, how gently they gave me a massage. I don’t know where they got that experience from, and I’d rather not think about it because that leaves a twinge in my chest. Something suspiciously close to jealousy. And I’m not even a jealous woman, but I can’t stand the thought that they have done something similar to the women who came before me. No. I want all this goodness to be only mine. Selfish, I know, but girl, you can’t blame me. They are too good to share. Such a weird statement considering they are sharing me, but we will not talk about that part.

They touched me with so much gentleness that I forgot my name and where I was. I can still feel the tips of their fingers gently tracing my delicate skin. My muscles loved it. It released all the tension I’ve carried all my years. Maybe even the tension from past lives. Do I believe in past lives? Before this, no. After this, I don’t know what to believe anymore. The time I spent with them has changed everything I knew about life. I have a feeling there’s a lot I still don’t know.

But I’m all for it. I want to live my life to the fullest and experience everything I didn’t get to experience because of the various restrictions. As far as I’m concerned, I could have died a few days ago. So, I will cherish this rare second chance in life and explore my wild dreams.

I must have drifted into the most beautiful sleep afterwards because right now, I’m sandwiched between clean, silky sheets that feel amazing against my bare skin. Yes, I’m naked under these sheets. I lift my head a bit and look around.

The room looks different from the one I was in yesterday. It is much bigger and decorated in darker masculine tones, but one of the lights has a cool red tone, the kind that can set the mood perfectly. I’m lying in a king-size bed, and although both sides of the bed are empty, the sheets are crumpled in a way that tells me they spent most of the evening—or night—beside me.

The thought warms up my heart. I wonder how it would feel to be sandwiched all night by two sinfully hot men? Would it be comfortable? Would it be as hot as I imagine, or would it feel suffocating? I’ve never tried it before, so I have no clue, but I intend to try soon. My stomach makes a point to remind me how great sex consumes a lot of energy, and it is time to replenish that. In short, I’m hungry. Famished, if you may.

I slowly sit up and stretch lazily, loving how my boobs bounce a bit when I lower my hands. I cup each boob in my hand and squeeze it gently, arching my back, and close my eyes as I think about how their hands felt against my skin when they did this. I bite my bottom lip as a tiny wave of pleasure rushes towards my nether regions. God, I’m obsessed with them. I’m afraid I’m beyond saving at this point.

Anyway, back to my current problem. I’m famished, but I don’t know where or how to get the food. Our moments of passion made me forget I was still not familiar with the place, and they hadn’t really given me explicit permission to move around, despite them telling me I was already part of their lives. We could have talked about the fine details earlier in the day if not for my letting myself be lured by sleep.

Now I’m here with lots of questions that never got answers because I never got to ask them. I don’t know how this will work out between us and how we are going to actualize it. Dreaming about having two men as mine is one thing, but actually making it a reality is the tricky part. I’ve never been in this kind of relationship before, and I have no clue how it works. I’ve always been a one-man-one-woman type of person. I need to find answers, after food, of course, but this time I’m doing it with clothes on. I don’t want to be distracted. Hopefully.

The first thing I notice when I turn around is a pair of neatly folded clothes sitting on the nightstand. A red rose and a small note sit on the folded clothes. I scoot over and snatch the note as if someone were chasing me. It didn’t even occur to me that I should take my time to admire the rose first, the way those girls on TV do it. Maybe I’m not built the same as them.

The only time I appeared on TV was to have my obituary read, which brings up the question of my identity. Who will I be now that my real self is supposedly dead? I guess I will need new identification and possibly a makeover. I’ll make it a point to bring it up, that’s if they haven’t thought about that part yet. After years of working in my field, I know getting me new documentation is a piece of cake for them.

I unfold the note with my brows scrunched, but relax as I read the contents.

[Good morning, sleeping beauty.

We would have loved to watch the first rays of sunshine light on your beautiful, sleepy face, but we had to leave early. Something came up, and we didn’t have the heart to wake you up. When you wake up, there’s a phone under these clothes. Make a call, and the butler will take you around. Make yourself at home. We’ll see you at dinner. Kisses.]

I fold the note, place it back on the nightstand, and hit the shower. I can already tell I am going to have a long day. I don’t know what attitude the people in this house will have toward me. They never mentioned anything about anyone, so I don’t know what to expect. What if someone who knows my identity decides to chuck me off a balcony in their absence? I can’t put it past them. Will I live to see those two at dinner, or will I die before that?