Sam and Clara welcome the Chinese food delivery man, but the evening takes an unexpected turn when Sam invites him to meet them. Clara, in a bikini, becomes the center of attention in a scene charged with tension and desire.
Sam closes the front door and the apartment's heater envelops Clara, who has already hung her small bag on the coat rack. The silence is brief: Sam's phone vibrates with the delivery app; the Chinese food bill is already four minutes in.
"It'll be quick," he assures Clara, brushing against the curve of her bottom, still covered by the denim skirt. "Put on what we bought you yesterday, go on."
Clara pulls aside the bra strap with a barely knowing gesture and, without answering, crosses the living room into the hallway. She returns two minutes later: the pale pink bikini fabric hugs her breasts like a whisper, the lower triangle barely outlining her clitoris, so that when she turns to check the knot at her back, Sam already notices the blood pooling in his pants.
"Are you really going to let me go out like this to pick up the food?" she whispers, still unsure.
"Of course." Sam plops down on the sofa and turns on the TV, some random trailer playing in the background. "We're having dinner and a movie, and you came all dressed up like this."
The doorbell rings just as Clara adjusts the blanket on her legs. Sam presses the intercom:
"Yes, go up, second left."
The elevator is heard. Clara stands up, shaking out her bangs, pressing her thighs together as if that gesture could hide the heat that already soaks into the fabric.
The boy who appears on the landing is carrying the delivery backpack and wearing a cap with a worn visor; when he sees her open it, his bangs soaked in sweat, his voice seems to get stuck.
"Uh… um… your order."
Clara takes a step back. Sam beckons with his hand:
"Come in, leave the tray there, put it on the dining room table."
The boy crosses the room, his eyes fixed on the loose bikini that reveals the tips of his breasts, hardened by the night's coolness. When he leans over the table, his t-shirt rides up, showing the line of his back, covered in beads of sweat and pent-up hormones.
Sam reads the hardness in the boy's bulge better than any thermometer. He sits up, lets out a muffled laugh, and places his hand on Clara's back, caressing the damp silk.
"Thanks, man. Do you want some water before you go?" he suggests, knowing the question is just for show.
"Well… no… I mean, of course," the boy stammers.
Sam exchanges a glance with Clara: she presses her lips together, holding a thread of breath, and makes a move to lower her chin. Sam interprets that shyness as a yes.
"Come, get to know us." He takes Clara's wrist and gently pushes her toward the hallway. "There's something more comfortable at the end."
The guest room is bathed in the dim light of a single lamp, its Nordic-style base casting a warm circle onto the beige bedspread. Sam sits on the edge of the bed, back straight, arms crossed as he watches. Clara stands before the delivery man, sweaty palms resting on thighs still glistening from her sun-protective creosote. The air conditioner hums; none of the three move.
"You can touch her," Sam dictates, his voice hoarse, pushing Clara against the other's chest.
The boy raises his trembling hand, lowers it again, then, daringly, places it on Clara's neck. She lets out the soft exhalation of someone receiving the first drop of rain. Her fingers slide down to the bikini clasp, tugging awkwardly; the top triangle gives way and her breasts are revealed, pink, with the complexion of someone who never fully tans. Clara lowers her gaze, her nipples hardening, and feels the delivery man's package as if touching fire: first her palm flat, then her fingers fanning out, revealing its length from behind the zipper.
"Take it out," Sam orders, so quietly that the phrase barely reaches the couple.
The boy fastens his belt with such frenetic ease that he barely notices the fabric of his trousers tangling around his ankles as he bends down to take off his shoes. His boxers fall away immediately: a thick cock, slightly curved upwards, is freed and strikes the warm air. Clara encircles it with her fist for just an instant; the tip is wet with the first drop of precum that stains her index fingernail as their lips part.
Sam leans forward, lifts the boy's wrist and places it on Clara's hip.
"Slowly and without getting into trouble, okay?" he says, staring at her. "Nobody talks outside here."
The delivery man nods, his head bobbing up and down simultaneously as his fingers twist the knot of her bikini. The fabric slips down her buttocks; Clara bends down, pushing it away from one ankle, and now she's completely naked except for her engagement ring, which flashes a light against her sweaty skin. Sam takes her by the waist, guides her to the mattress, and lays her back down; then he takes her hand, intertwines their fingers, and stretches it out on the sheet like someone holding a balloon before it floats away.
The light highlights the line of her freshly shaved mons pubis and the entire oval of her sex, glowing with arousal. The delivery man kneels at the edge, somewhat uncertain, but Clara instinctively opens her thighs: the slit appears tenacious, juicy, the inner thread rubbing against her labia minora. The boy rises to his knees on the bed, his cock swinging at the level of Clara's pubis; her hand guides the tip: he rubs the head against the entrance, gathers moisture, and slides in again.
Sam presses Clara's palm, his thumb against her wrist bone.
"Go ahead," he whispers.
The boy pushes. The first half disappears between the pink walls as Clara grips the sheet tightly and arches her back. Sam places his other hand on her forehead: he finds her embarrassing, a trickle of sweat at her temples. The delivery man pulls harder then, letting his own weight sink him completely; when he finishes entering, Clara gasps.
"Oh..." is all that comes out, a mangy babble of pleasure that escapes through his half-open mouth.
Sam gazes at her, his soul trapped between his teeth: the bride breathes to the rhythm of the cock drilling into her, slow, full. The boy thrusts with his hips working at half-speed; his grip settles on Clara's buttocks, parting them so that Cam's tongue might become visible in his imagination, but there is nothing but thick heat from inside and wet pubic hair. The delivery man bends down to stand on his hands; his abdomen bumps against Clara's and the rubber band holding the food tray falls into the hallway as his sweat drips onto her burning breasts.
Sam, without letting go of her hand, shifts his hips slightly, just enough for Clara to notice that he is there, present, providing calm: the cuckold's voice, firm but warm:
"Soak it up, move it like you did last night when you were masturbating by yourself… that little hole feels good."
Clara smiles more out of embarrassment than in response; nevertheless, she opens her legs even wider, plants her heels on the bedspread, and begins the dance from the bottom up, thrusting into the delivery man. The boy moans, his head thrown back, a slight tremor in his quadriceps as he feels the inside pressed against the glans.
The thick cock opens the passage with each stroke; when it withdraws an inch, the cold air from the air conditioner penetrates very deeply; when it returns, Clara arches her back, biting her lip.
Sam looks down at the pressed pubis: he observes the point where the unknown cock disappears, how Clara's skin curls outwards, the inner flesh wet and shiny.
"Is it tight enough?" he asks, sounding amused and commanding.
"Very…" the delivery man sighs.
"Well, don't come inside yet, the best part is still to come."
Clara lets out a dripping giggle, and the delivery man, as if that were a signal, slows his thrusts. Sam compensates for the slowness with a caress on Clara's cheek, which raises her chin in innocent pleasure.
With brutal synchronicity, the boy pulls halfway out and pushes back in, then makes a circular motion that leaves Clara speechless; she firmly grips the back of his neck, pulling him forward, and without thinking, they share their first kiss: the delivery man's tongue arrives thick, hot, tasting of mint bubblegum and a thick layer of tension. Sam watches his girlfriend's lips part to embrace another taste, another texture; they don't hold back. The boy, without breaking the kiss, leans on his left elbow and with his right hand masturbates her clitoris: he scratches, he makes circles. Clara moans within the kiss, a vibration in her throat that reaches his palate and that Sam describes as a symphony.
The pace quickens; the boy can no longer hold back. Sam leans close to Clara's ear:
"Tell him where he wants to cum."
She parts her lips, her eyes glazed:
"On my breasts… please…"
The phrase shocks the delivery man, who, with a couple of wild thrusts, pulls out and jumps off the bed, masturbating with both hands. Clara sits up on the edge, her back against Sam's chest, who hasn't let go of her hand for a second and whose arms are completely around her from behind. Sam's other hand whispers through Clara's hair as the lack of air builds: the boy's cock throbs, the head swells, and with a grunt, the first spurt of hot semen leaps and falls between Clara's trembling breasts, whitish liquid that trickles down to her engagement ring. The second spurt reaches her throat; the third splashes her mound and runs down the cleft of her navel. Clara watches him with her mouth slightly open, the tip of her tongue darting about, and when it seems he's finished, she herself holds his twitching cock: she leans her head forward and, without uttering a word, receives the last drop on her lips, savoring it from mouth to mouth.
The room falls silent, its breaths broken. The delivery man searches for his shirt among the folds, his gaze lowered, consciousness fleeting. Sam simply points his chin toward the hallway:
"Water bottle in the kitchen; the door is the same. And remember the rule."
"Yes... thank you... really..." the boy murmurs, now dressed. Shelf after shelf, his blurry figure turns off the hallway light, and the front door closes with a distant click.
In the dim light, only Clara remains, sitting on the bed, glistening with semen; Sam behind her, embracing her waist and placing a slow kiss on the nape of her neck. The thick scent of sex, both their own and others', hangs in the air.
"How are you, baby?" he murmurs.
Clara gives a suppressed start and presses her back against his torso, panting.
"Like... they'd just discovered a whole continent inside my body." She turns to look him in the eyes, smiling. "And there you were, holding my hand the whole time..."
Sam separates his fingers for a second, then links them again, tighter.
"That's my spot." Kiss on the forehead. "Hungry? The food should still be warm."
"I'm hungry for movies, and for you, but give me two minutes to clean up."
She gets up naked, a little shaky, and crosses the room, leaving the door ajar, letting in light from the bathroom. Sam hears her turn on the tap, a soft pat of a towel. He sighs deeply, feeling his still-aching bulge of desire: the night has barely begun. He walks to the living room table, picks up the box of wontons, and shakes it slowly. He tastes one while the echo of the phrase "Hungry?" reverberates in his head, and he anticipates the second helping.