PRIVATE threesome

PRIVATE threesome, and I swear I still get butterflies thinking about it—it started as a lazy Sunday, rain tapping the window, and my girlfriend whispered she’d been fantasizing about sharing me with her best friend. I laughed at first, but the look in her eyes was serious, so we texted her friend, and she showed up an hour later with a bottle of cheap wine and a smile that made my stomach flip. One thing led to another—soft touches on the couch, a kiss that lingered a beat too long, and then we were tangled in bedsheets, my girlfriend’s hand guiding mine while her best friend’s breath hitched against my neck. It wasn’t performative or loud; it was messy and real, the kind of closeness where you lose track of whose leg is whose. I remember the weight of two bodies pressing into me, the taste of wine on someone’s lips, the way we all laughed when the condom wrapper slipped. Afterwards, we lay there sweaty and quiet, and my girlfriend traced circles on my chest and said, “That was nice, right?” And it was—not explosive, just warm and strange and ours.