The Threesome

[Unpublished]

My reason for going to Shades night club that night was because I was feeling depressed and wanted to get well and truly pissed. Naturally, I was conscious of the place being a pick-up joint, a singles bar as some people like to call it, as I had been there lots of times in the past. The one thing I didn't expect was finding Colette there.
At first I wasn't aware that Shades was a club for the depraved and the lonely, that I discovered by accident. I required somewhere to ease my emotions after splitting up with Sue, somewhere to lose myself and attempt to jettison the whole episode from my mind, and after several strong ciders I did just that. Then a blonde woman joined me at the bar and began to quite literally chat me up, resulting in a splendid night of sex and debauchery. From that moment on I frequented Shades every weekend in search of more passionate encounters, and more often than not I found them.
I've met all sorts through visiting that place. I've been with teenagers, married thirtysomethings with discarded wedding rings, divorcees approaching middle age at a phenomenal speed. Big women, short women, tall women, skinny women, women shaped like peardrops, and almost tasting the same. I've seen huge tits, small tits, oddly-shaped tits, and one time practically no tits at all. Tight twats, slack twats, twats that looked like they had half a pound of tripe hanging out, and one woman was so loose it was like fucking an abyss. They all helped me to forget Sue though, at least for the one night.
Sue and I parted on amicable terms, if you can call me begging for her to change her mind amicable. She felt our relationship was heading nowhere, except maybe for a brick wall, and it was time to call it a day. Four years we'd been together, four years of sliding down a hill to end up in a ditch containing sorrow and depression, a ditch where my only means of escape was strong cider and lurid sex with virtual strangers. All I had to show for it were two half-empty suitcases and a rancid flat overlooking the graveyard.
Anyway I digress. On the night in question, I was sitting in my usual position on one of those impossibly high stools at the bar, when Colette approached, emerging from somewhere inside a nearby haze of cigarette smoke. She works on the checkouts at the supermarket where I make a meagre living. Of course, I knew her by sight, it was difficult not to notice someone with legs like hers. Her face was a mess, and I refuse to embarrass you with the term nice legs shame about the face, but she didn't look too bad with make-up on. Oh, and another thing about Colette. She's married.
"Fancy seeing you here, Steve," she cooed, and I could tell she'd allowed far too much spirit inside her judging by her breath and her unsteady tone of voice.
"Do you know what kind of place this is?" I asked her.
Before she arrived there was a woman across the bar who was giving me the eye. She was extremely thin with barely any bust, and she was wearing astonishingly thick goggle-like glasses that she could have gone scuba diving in quite easily. I would have ended up screwing her if Colette hadn't shown up.
"Of course I do," laughed Colette, "everyone knows about this place."
She was practically thrusting her heavy duty knockers into my shoulder, and she smelled like she'd taken a bath in some cheap scent she'd purchased by the gallon. She was dressed in one of those bustiere sort of things, skin exposed from the nipples upwards, with pale flesh escaping in lumps from the waistline of her obscenely short skirt.
"You're married, aren't you?" I pointed out to her.
She lifted her left hand, and I spied the tell-tale red mark around her third finger. "Not tonight, I'm not," she said with a lascivious wink.
I recalled all the times I'd lusted after her body at work, in particular the occasions when I caught her bending over the checkouts, revealing the hem of her underskirt and, more importantly, her delicious legs.
"So what's your game, Colette? You're not... are you?"
She knew what I meant. "Oh yes, I am. How about it, Steve?"
I was immediately sceptical. One, she had had quite a lot to drink. Two, she was married. And three, we worked at the same place. How in hell could I ever face her again at the supermarket if we both harboured memories of some better-forgotten sexual fiasco? I had to be certain I was doing the right thing before I agreed to this outstanding invitation.
"What about your husband?" I asked.
"Bill? He's all for it. In fact, it was his suggestion."
I was most intrigued by this reply. "Really?"
"That's right. You see, he fancies a threesome."
Of course, this knocked me for six. I was confused, not knowing how to react to this development in the offer she was making. I didn't have much time to consider it. I almost ended up refusing her, and leaving that place with my sperm still inside my balls. But then I remembered those gorgeous legs, and the promise of what was nestled between them, not to mention those twin peaks which were practically staring me in the face and begging to be fondled. Her husband -- Bill? -- would be present and taking part in the action, but then so what? She reckoned he was all for it. And so was yours truly.
I glanced across at the woman in the goggles, and I promised myself I would seek her out the next time I visited Shades, for that night I intended to join Colette and her husband in a threesome. My original intention was to get pissed, to forget all the troubles that my bastard life had bestowed upon me, but then I thought, what the fuck?
Sex. Now there's a thing. But what price do we pay? It's the ultimate addiction, as if sex itself is actually seducing you into taking part, and what's it all for? All the sweating and heaving and fucking and sucking, all to experience that one-second wonder we all call an orgasm, all for that small blob of sperm to appear, and then die. And the organs we use, the ones we piss out of, and in some cases the one we shit from. How utterly ridiculous! Yet I was hooked.
When Colette introduced me to Bill I was amazed at how big and muscular he was. It was as if Desperate Dan had somehow been transformed from the comic book pages into a real live human being, although human was stretching it a bit, I thought. He was watching a porn film on the TV, and the sound was embarrassingly loud, the whole house was filled with moans and groans and cries of I'm gonna fuck you in the ass and I'm coming. There's nothing like good old family entertainment.
After being fuelled by a couple of glasses of chimp's piss which was disguised as cheap lager I found myself in the master bedroom naked and with my nose about half an inch away from the pinkness of Colette's snatch, which itself possessed the foetid stomach-churning odour of fresh urine owing to her recent visit to the crapper. The three of us were minus clothing, three pale bodies forming a daisy chain, as Colette was eagerly delivering oral delights to Bill's tumescence.
Experts reckon that men think about sex once every six seconds. Well that may be true, but if confronted by Colette's lower limbs I'm convinced that I would think about sex for every second of my existence upon this planet of ours, and perhaps beyond.
It's amazing how you soon get used to the taste of piss, especially with a woman's labia clenched between your teeth. She was so hairy down there I truly believed she must have been allergic to Immac. Bill was selfishly monopolising the muscle department, apart from the one muscle I possessed, the one with the Japanese eye, which before I could say oh fuck was inspecting the back of Colette's throat.
Bill was a twat of a lover. Colette was unable to concentrate on the job in hand, not to mention the cock in mouth, as her husband hammered her from behind. But this is sex, folks, this is what it's all about, this is what makes the world go round. So why should Colette worry about the brutal way in which Bill fucked her? You ask me. The thing about threesomes involving two blokes and a woman is you find yourself making comparisons. You either feel inferior or superior, and after one glance at Bill's weapon I developed an inferiority complex by about two inches. At that moment I was pleased that my own embarrassment was hidden by Colette's lips and tongue.
The time to start fretting is when the bloke pulls out of the woman and grabs a hold of your hair, attempting to force his cock into your mouth. Naturally, I was astounded, I mean, he didn't even ask. I tried to say what the fuck's going on but with a mouthful of meat it was difficult to do. When I agreed to a threesome I didn't expect anything like that, no way.
It was like trying to swallow a whole banana, skin and all, but tasting of fanny juice and pre-cum, not a cocktail I recommend. When Bill had had enough of screwing my tonsils he pulled out and forced me on to my knees, still holding my hair. Now free of the ugly protuberance I seized the opportunity to protest.
"What the fuck's going on? I didn't agree to this!"
Bill wasn't impressed, and neither was Colette, who was giggling like a schoolgirl as she observed her husband's outlandish treatment of her fellow worker. "Don't worry, Steve. He'll be gentle with you," she told me.
Following her statement Bill began to redefine the word gentle, as he scraped his hand along the crack between my bum cheeks, then roughly spread them apart before hawking up some phlegm and depositing it on to my brown eye. I wished I'd gone with the goggles woman when he started to enter me...
Well how was I to know he was bisexual? It's not something that stands out in a person, they don't have badges declaring the fact, and neither do they have bisexual stamped upon their foreheads, although right then I wished to God they had. Personally, I have nothing against them, if they want to swing both ways that's their business, if they want to have the best, and indeed the worst, of both worlds, it's entirely up to them. But when one of them decides to screw me in the arse I draw the line.
A person can only take so much, and in my case it was eight inches too much. Bill grunted like a pig as he shot his sample inside me. That annoyed me too, that really annoyed me. How dare he do such a thing. My mouth was aching with the choke fucking he had given me earlier, and I came to the conclusion that I would be absolutely hopeless as a bisexual, so no forehead tattoos for me, thank you very much.
"Come on, Steve," said Colette, "you can screw me now."
Have you ever been tempted to throttle someone with your bare hands, to strangle the life from them, to watch them struggle for air unsuccessfully? If Bill hadn't been there I would have done just that to Colette for luring me into such a predicament. Mind you, if Bill hadn't been there I wouldn't have had to suffer the ignominious bashing he had given me. Isn't life a bitch?
Half-heartedly I fucked Colette, when all the time my arse ached tremendously, and I was dying for a crap. She refused a condom, saying she didn't need it, she trusted me, and I had to trust her, and what's more she liked the feel of a man spurting inside her. Have you ever heard such a thing? I have -- lots of times.
So I produced this feeble ejaculation from my semi-flaccid cock, and Colette loved it, utterly pissed Colette, her eyeballs revolving in their sockets. Without any excuses I dashed for the bathroom and planted my pulsating arse upon the throne, and whoosh! It was that weird liquid shit you get when you're not well, falling from my anus like a stinking brown waterfall. I felt as though I had just shat a medicine ball.
After the cleaning-up business with the toilet paper, which I won't describe in detail as you know all about it and you don't really want to hear about shit like that anyway I bet, I staggered over to the sink to wash my hands. And my dick. And my arsehole. Thoroughly, and lots of times, with plenty of scrubbing.
Sex with strangers is a dangerous thing, in different ways, and sometimes sex with someone you know, or vaguely know, can be just as perilous. I studied my face in the mirror, and I wondered whether I ought to tell Bill and Colette, to get my own back on them, to watch them squirm in front of me. Then I thought, no way. Let them find out the true horrors in due course, just as I had to. I was becoming quite gaunt even then, with dark blotches appearing under my eyes. The poor fuckers didn't realize it was their protection I was considering when I suggested the condom...