Chapter Text
I stare at Frank, blinking stupidly at him.
«You… what?»
Did I hear him correctly? Did he really just say that…
«I fantasize about watching another man fuck you.»
Yep, so he did say that. It wasn’t just in my head.
«I, uh…»
I am momentarily speechless. I was the one who initiated the conversation about sharing our sexual fantasies. I was post coital, my brain still fuzzy from the two orgasms Frank had just given me, and I felt incredibly close to him. So I shared my own fantasy of joining the mile-high club – which seems pretty vanilla now, in comparison to what Frank has just told me – and I realize that I was completely unprepared for his honest response.
«Really?» My lips are dry, and I have to clear my throat before I can continue. «Fucked by… who?»
Frank shrugs. «It’s not a specific man, if you know what I mean? Just… A man. Someone who is large, well built and good-looking, and who knows his way around a woman’s body. Because I’d want you to really enjoy it.»
He has clearly thought about this a lot.
My head sinks down onto the pillow, and I look up at the ceiling. The room is only semi-dark, despite the late hour. It is late June, and in Scotland, the nights are fairly light.
Still stunned, I repeat the question he asked me after I had told him about my own fantasy:
«Is that something you’d like to try in real life?»
His response is immediate, without the hesitation or nervous laugh of my own answer just minutes before:
«Yes.»
Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.
Frank has never been the pushy type. He falls asleep shortly after our late-night, post-coital, probably ill-advised confessions, and the next morning, it’s as if it never happened. He doesn’t bring up what he said the night before, and neither do I.
And Frank actually wants to do it. Or rather, he wants me to do it. Fuck someone else. With him in the same room, looking at us.
Frank pours me a cup of coffee, as he always does in the morning because he knows all too well I’m a monster before my first cup of coffee. He asks me what’s on today’s operating schedule, and I ask him about the paper he’s working on. Just like any other day. Then I hurry off to work. His schedule is flexible, so he can finish his coffee in peace, whereas mine is anything but.
I don’t really have time to think about it at work. I have to actively push the thought of my own husband fantasizing about watching me being fucked by another man, because my patients deserve better than to be operated on by a surgeon who is distracted by thoughts of sex and my husband’s dark eyes observing me from across the room while I lie back and a head full of coppery red curls moves between my legs…
Focus, Claire. Focus.
We don’t talk about it the next day, either. Or the day after that.
But then it’s Friday. I’m beat. It’s been a hell of a week, with far too much overtime and far too little sleep. Falling asleep has been pretty hard because of, well…
But now it’s finally Friday, I have the whole weekend off, and I have the chance to (hopefully) catch up on both sleep and pretending to have a life. I have a couple of glasses of whisky, and so does Frank. It’s been three years now, and I think we have adapted pretty well to living in Scotland. Scotland does get rainy and dark in winter, but on the other hand, the long summer nights and the whisky make it worth it. Most of the time, anyway.
Frank is working on his paper. He is sitting on the couch with his laptop, his feet on the table. He’s probably less inebriated than I am. Not that I’m drunk. But the alcohol just makes my limbs feel heavy and warm, and I feel as if I might actually get a good night’s sleep tonight. Maybe. Because I am just pretending to watch something on Netflix, all I can think about is…
«What if I told you I want to do it too?» The words just slip out. Maybe I should have stopped at one glass of whisky.
He looks up at me over the rim of his glasses. «Do what?» He is deep in the methods section of his paper on… I can’t remember. Something about Jacobites.
«That I want to… have sex with someone else while you are looking.»
I don’t often see Frank surprised. He’s a very intelligent man, and he’s usually ahead of whatever’s going on around him. He is also a fairly cynical person. Not in a bad way; it is just that he always expects things to go to hell in unexpected ways. This combination makes it difficult to shock him. But now he is clearly stunned. He stares at me, his mouth open, for a few long seconds.
«Really?» He finally closes his mouth.
I nod.
He closes the lid of his laptop and puts it down on the table. Then he gulps down two large mouthfuls of whisky, emptying his glass. He refills it, almost to the brim.
«Have you ever… done anything like this before?» he asks.
«No. But I take it you have?»
Frank and I first met about six months after my graduation. I was an exhausted F1, and he was an equally exhausted associate professor at Oxford. We met at a bar, bonded over our mutual exhaustion, and I took him home that night. And while I had expected it to be a one-night stand, one thing led to another, and we ended up getting married two years later.
Fairly early on in our relationship, we shared most of our sexual history. I hadn’t exactly been a saint, both when I was a student and before. I love sex, and I have never been apologetic about that. Thankfully, Frank has never expected that of me. Quite the opposite, in fact - he is very appreciative of both my experience and my libido. I was surprised, however, when I learned that the up-and-coming young Oxford historian wasn’t quite as vanilla as his somewhat boring looks might suggest. He told me that he had been into swinging for a while with a few previous partners. Sex clubs, from time to time. But he’d said that was a thing of the past. I had been relieved at the time, because it wasn’t something I was interested in trying. I was a young doctor, and just the thought of possibly running into a patient at a sex party was enough to make me think better of it.
So, I hadn’t thought about this in years. But now, here we are.
«Yes, I have watched other men fuck several of my ex girlfriends.» He pauses. «It was a long time ago, obviously. Claire, I… don’t want you to feel pressured in any way. If you don’t really want to do this, if you say you want to try just to make me happy, or because you feel that you should, you really shouldn’t…»
I cut him off.
«Frank.» I take his left hand in mine. His long, slender fingers are cool against my much warmer skin. I twist his wedding ring around his ring finger. «Don’t you know me well enough to know that I would never pretend to want something in bed that I don’t?»
He nods slowly.
«So clearly, you must have enjoyed those previous experiences. What did you like so much about them? What made such a strong impression on you that this became your favorite sexual fantasy?»
He takes a deep, shaky breath. «It was several things, I suppose. The forbidden nature of the act, for one thing. Seeing her being pleasured… Giving herself over completely to another man.» He pauses, clears his throat. I briefly glance down at his crotch, and notice that he is aroused. «I probably shouldn’t be more specific than that, I don’t think it is fair to share intimate information about previous partners. But the thought of doing that with you, sharing that experience… You are so beautiful, Claire. And I love watching you come. The look on your face, the sounds you make… And just the thought of seeing someone else satisfy you…»
He leans closer, his breath hot against my neck as he inhales the scent of my hair. His voice is hoarse when he continues, «I can picture it all. How some other man’s cock pounds into you.» Jesus H. motherfucking Roosevelt Christ. «How your body writhes beneath his, the sounds you make just before you come on his cock…»
He has started kissing my neck. The pulse between my legs is pounding.
«And you’ll just… watch?»
«Yes.»
«And… touch yourself?»
«Yes.»
«Do you touch us? While we are fucking?»
He slips a bra strap down my shoulder, his tongue darting out to taste my skin.
«In my fantasies?» I nod. «Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. Perhaps I wouldn’t touch you – or him - the first time. But if, you know, that’s something both of you wanted…» His voice trails off. A part of me wants to ask him whether he’s done that before too, but I’m not really sure I want to hear the answer. It isn’t relevant anyway. It doesn’t matter what he has done in the past. What matters is what’s between us, here and now.
«I do have a couple of conditions,» I tell him as he pulls the tank top over my head.
«Name them.»
«We try it. Once. I’ll reserve the right to back out at any time.»
«Of course.»
«And if it doesn’t feel right, for both of us – all of us,» I correct myself - «That’s it. If it turns out to be a mistake, we’ll communicate about it and move on. There will be no regrets, no hard feelings, and absolutely no jealousy.»
«Okay.» He tries to push my pants down, but the angle is awkward.
«And I get to decide who we ask to… join us.»
«That sounds reasonable.» He has given up on the pants for now and decides to just shove his fingers into my panties instead. «Do you have anyone in mind?»
His shirt is now on the floor too.
«Yes. Jamie.»
He stops abruptly, sits up, and looks me in the eye. «Jamie? As in the King of Men, Jamie? Jamie, who works at the stables?»
I smile. «Yes.»