The third wheel

This sexy story from About Henry by JL Peridot is published with permission.

Taboo hot erotic story by JL Peridot

“Melody and I have an arrangement,” he ventured.

I swallowed a word and spoke a whisky; the single malt burned in an odd place. Covering up a choke, I handed back the glass.

“‘You have an open marriage?’”

He seemed relieved. “Good, you’ve heard of those. That saves me a lot of explaining.”

“I mean, I’ve heard of them. I’ve just never met anyone in one. What’s it like?”

“It’s… what you make it. I’m not sure what to tell you. It is what it is.”

“But don’t you get jealous? Doesn’t she?”

“At first, sure. But I know she’ll always come back. And she knows I’ll be here when she does. We’ve been together a long time, Julie. Things change when you know someone long enough.”

“You mean you fell out of love?”

“No, quite the opposite. Our love is deeper than it’s ever been.”

I didn’t get it. Not completely. The suspicious side of me wondered if he was just a very smooth sleaze bag, but the idea didn’t sit right. Garden variety sleaze bags tend to be all-or-nothing. They’re either full-on into you, or they talk about their tastes and other conquests, hinting at a standard you’re supposed to live up to.

I didn’t see that in Henry Aston; not in his tone, nor his demeanour. You meet enough rich businessmen who act like they’re God’s gift, and you can spot them a mile off. No, this guy was giving me a glimpse into his life the way he lived it. That was that.

 And I have to admit, despite my reservations, the idea lit me up.

Here was a charming, attractive guy who came pre-vetted by a woman who was obviously a catch, and he was available with no strings attached, no risk of either of us expecting more because we’d both know the deal.


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I say that like it was even on the table.

Maybe it was. As we left the bar, he put his hand on my back. It lingered after we crossed the threshold—an invitation? I didn’t pull away or shrug it off, but fell in step and matched his pace. Would he take that as a yes? Would I have minded if he did?

He wasn’t ready to head back, so we summoned an Uber bound for Kings Park. We got out behind Fraser’s and walked to the lookout platform. The view of the city is breathtaking after dark: lights across the nightscape, with cars like cells flowing through freeway arteries. He got out his phone to take some photos. I got mine out too—tourists in our own city indeed.

“Julie, what would you do if I put my arms around you?”

How random. And sudden. I stared into my phone with unnatural intensity, buying time, thinking of what to say. I shrugged, played it cool. “I guess it depends on what you’d do next.”

“That wouldn’t be up to me,” he said, hand on the railing. His jacket hung open. For the first time, I noticed the tiny monogram embroidered on the corner of his collar: his initials in fancy script. His cologne was subtle, like the crinkle in his cheek when he smiled. “I don’t get to decide what you’d be okay with.”

I put away my phone. “I guess I’d be okay with an arm.”

He raised his free hand to my cheek and brushed away my hair. My face tingled—turning pink perhaps, and liking the perfect pressure of his thick and strong fingers. I imagined him with all his fingers in my hair, pulling me to him, holding me in place. I thought he might kiss me, but his forearm remained resting on my shoulder.

He thumbed my cheek; they flushed. Hell, my whole body flushed.

Then, there was that little smile teasing the corner of his lips—teasing me.

“All right, what else would you be okay with?”

So many things. But the lights were bright out here and anyone could stumble upon us. And what the hell did I know about this guy anyway?

That he was married. Was I okay with that?

“Are you sure your wife’s all right with this?” I asked.

“With this? Of course.”

“No, I mean, with you and me.”

“You and me. There is no you and me. Not yet. Not if you don’t want it.”

“It’s not that—”

“No?” He raised an eyebrow. Maybe I said that a little too quickly.

“I just…” I sighed. “Look, this is a first for me. I’m not used to the idea that shagging someone else’s husband is okay.”

He chuckled. God, even his half-laughs were sexy. I was fumbling and I knew it. I hadn’t had a fuck in ages and I wanted him so bad—this guy, with his smooth voice and hot American accent. I couldn’t shake the feeling this was wrong, but all it did was make me want it more.

It was a cocktail: desire, rebellion—freedom—and I was getting drunk off it fast.

I mean, how unfair is it that you can’t have someone you’re attracted to just because someone else happened to get there first? And yet, I could have Henry. If I wanted him.

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A car skidded on the road below. We looked over, saw it race off from the bottom of the hill. As he moved his arm away, I caught it, wrapped him around me. My back pressed into the railing; my heart was racing too.

“Do you have anything on you?” I asked. Condom. Protection. Such simple words, but I couldn’t bring myself to say them. They were too confronting, too real. Was this really happening?

“No,” he replied. “But I’m clean.”

“Me too. I was tested last month.”

“The week before flying out.”

“What about—”

“Nothing to worry about.” Movement in his eyes; even in this light, I saw it. “Mel and I each took precautions. Neither of us want a family. It would… complicate things.”

Well, he was sure making matters simple now. The hurdles were clear. We were good to go. It was too convenient, really. You might call it “fate”; I call it—well, I don’t know what I call it. But I wanted it, wanted him. Yet still, I hesitated. This wasn’t me. I mean, I flirted, but rarely converted. If a guy showed interest, I tended to let him lead the way.

But it was all arse-backwards this time. Henry opened the door here, but now he was waiting for me to lead us through. What made him so sure that I would? What if I didn’t? He’d be going back empty-handed to his lonely hotel room.

I guess that’s what made him so attractive. That he didn’t seem bothered by it. That he wasn’t pushy.

He wasn’t exactly aloof, but he didn’t come with that air of needing this to happen at whatever cost. Was this even about sex for him, or just being open to a good time? I grabbed his face and stood on my toes for a kiss.

It wasn’t magic. But it was hot. Soft and inviting, a symphony of texture: my palms on his stubble; his lips on my lips; the wet roughness of his tongue on mine. It drew me in and I fell into him. He took my weight with his body, one hand on the back of my neck, the other travelling down my back and pulling me towards him.

He hardened beneath me. I pressed against him as he pressed me against the railing. Another car careened past down below, but we remained entangled. When he touched me again, I wondered what the skin felt like elsewhere on his body. I saw myself unbuttoning his shirt and pressing my forehead to his chest.

I’d lick out lines like a pencil drawing and bite the soft flesh where his shoulder meets his pecs.

Would his wife have done that too? The thought was making me prickle all over.

A breeze picked up off the river. It blew right between my legs, let me know for sure I was wet for him. Yes, I wanted this. But when his touch moved up my skirt and tickled the edges of my underwear, I pulled away.

“Not here,” I managed. I grabbed his arm and led us away. “Follow me.”

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Security does rounds at night. I pictured a car stopping metres from us. Maybe we’d get busted. Or maybe not. Maybe the guard would get out quietly, sneak up behind a tree, and film us on his phone while his dick strained in his pants.

No, thanks. I mean, at least not tonight.

There’s a gift shop just underneath. The light was broken outside. I led him down the hill and round the corner. If the balcony was centre stage, this concrete footpath was crawlspace, directly below where we just were, and concealed by the balcony above and darkness either side. No railing here either, just a steep slope down and an unadulterated view of the city.

With my back against the wall, I curled around him.

His hands found me again as I unbuttoned his shirt and kissed his neck, his chest.

When he pushed aside my panties and explored the wet terrain, I ran my tongue along the ridge of his collarbone. Could I bite this? What’s the etiquette for leaving marks on someone else’s partner?

I still don’t know. Before I could sink my teeth in, his fingers slipped inside me. I stifled a moan with his shoulder. We froze. Feet scuffled overhead, mixed with the chattering of voices, loud and young and Cantonese; probably uni students buzzed from a night on the piss. I couldn’t make out the detail on Henry’s face, but I could tell this didn’t faze him. He slowed down, drawing circles on my sensitive flesh, venturing inside, then out again to press into my clit.

I’m not sure what excited me more: his touch on my cunt, the fear of getting caught, or the thrill of doing this crazy thing I never would have imagined myself doing. I mean, what the fuck, really?

He kissed me, mouth muffling sounds that would have given us away.

But the kids above were noisy enough with their riffing and cackling and fake shutter clicks from phone cameras. They concealed the clink of me unbuckling his belt, Henry’s low voice checking once more if I was okay, and my involuntary gasp when his dick plunged into me.

The first entry—I love it. It’s a climax unto itself.


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He was careful at first, finding a comfortable place to settle, holding my legs as I straddled him. Slow and steady, he moved. Quietly enough. Then the gaggle upstairs departed. He rested his head on mine.

“I thought they’d never leave.” He gave a soft laugh. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I breathed him in—his hair, his skin, faint traces of meat and olive and peated whisky. “I’m good.”

He hauled me higher, hooked his elbows under my knees. His movements grew firmer, sharper, more intense until he was fucking me properly, until the lights from the city were wallpaper to my eyes. I could see the Capri Luxe from here, towering over the surrounding buildings. I’d always thought it looked like a giant, illuminated phallus, obviously designed by a man. But I didn’t mind it so much now, with Henry Aston driving into me. I found him pretty illuminating too.

Someone once told me the inside of a cunt feels like a tongue—soft and wet and rough.

I imagined a hundred tongues inside me, licking and tasting the cock that drew itself out and pushed back in.

The strange thoughts that come to mind when you’re right in the act.

Not that there was anything normal about that night. Not for me. I’d never fuck someone I barely knew like this. I’d never fuck a married man either, for that matter. But there I was, my skirt bunched up around my waist with another woman’s husband between my legs. I felt so bad. And it felt so good.

He slowed to a grind. The change of pace set me off.

As I came, I clutched his neck and grabbed a fistful of his hair, moving with him, against him. It was one of those orgasms that emerges from the deep. Not explosive, but overwhelmingly powerful. It quaked—I quaked—for a long time. Long enough for another set of sirens to approach and fade, distorting as they drove away. My mouth was dry from panting. Surely, his arms were getting tired.

But they held on a little longer, and with a last kiss, he let me down gently. I hustled my clothes back in place. My panties were soaked and cold. On any other night, I would have hated it, but on this night, they were a memento.

The clink of his belt buckle caught my attention. Was he packing up already?

So, guys like this did exist. The “journey, not destination” kind.

But no, this wouldn’t do. We weren’t done yet. I wasn’t done yet.

I shoved his hands away, dropped to my knees and took over, tugging his pants down and nudging him towards the wall.

“Hey, I’m no tour guide,” I started, reaching for him, “but this is one of the best lookout spots in Perth. Maybe you should take more time to admire the view—” I looked up at him, my hand wrapped around the shaft of his still-hard cock, holding it close to my chin. “—if you’re okay with that.”

Could he see my face? What light we did have illuminated his—just. He looked down at me; a look of amusement. His thumb stroked my cheek.

“Yeah,” he replied, “I’m okay.”

I flicked out my tongue, found him, and wrapped up the tip of his cock with my mouth—not dry anymore, but salivating for him. He was thick and smooth, endowed enough to make me wonder how I’d get it all in. Haha, just kidding—of course I would. And he’d help me. But I wanted him to want it first.

So I took it slow. Teasing with my tongue, with the soft flesh inside my cheek, with the roof of my mouth. I’ve always wondered if guys can tell the difference—or if it’s just one warm, muffled movement. Is that what makes it so exciting—that it’s an experience they don’t see, don’t control?

I worked the tip, kept it light. It was the tease, my tease, raking my fingernails down his hard abdomen, its contours pronounced, his body tense from pleasure and anticipation. You know, until that night, I’d never felt in control of my own sexual experience.

Sure, I’ve had good sex, but you know… not really on my own terms.

And sure, I got toey and talked big an awful lot, but when push came to shove, I guess I still felt I needed to play clean.

Maybe it was the way he fucked me that made me realise it. It was so raw, so much what I wanted, and I didn’t have to ask for it. I like it a bit rougher, you know? But how do you ask a guy to ratchet up without coming across like a slut? But that’s just it—maybe I am a little slutty. And with Henry having put my mind at ease in all sorts of little ways, I felt safe about exploring this side of me. I reached for his hands, guiding them to where I wanted them.

Some things you can’t ask for with words.

I mean, you can, but why would you when you say so much more by asking with your body? I pressed his palms to my temples—absolutely an invitation. His fingers flexed. He was thinking about it. I pressed again, this time on his fingertips, to let him know what I intended.

Then I grabbed his hips and pulled them towards me. My lips raced down the shaft to the base of his cock. Fuck, it felt good having him stuffed down my throat. So pervertedly good. Take that, playing clean! I tasted him, I tasted me, over and over, in and out, until finally, he caught my drift.

His grip tightened. At first, he kept the rhythm, my head forced in constant motion. Then he moved his own body, fucking my face like we were in a porn film. I wondered if Mrs. Aston went down on him like this, let him fuck her mouth like this. And if she did, did she enjoy it as much as I was enjoying it?

Strange thoughts again; this time like those weird dreams you have where the person in front of you is actually several different people inhabiting a body—inhabiting my body, with Henry Aston’s dick in my mouth. I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, and soon, I was reaching under my own clothes to touch myself. Slow lines at first, then circles with the flat of my fingernails applying pressure. And then, it didn’t matter.

Something in his body changed; a different tension, a new posture.

He was probably polite, meaning he’d pull out first, point away from me. I curled an arm around his hock of a thigh, and wrapped my other arm around his waist. I didn’t want polite. I mean, we were here weren’t we? In the shadows under a public balcony, him with his pants down, me on my knees. I wanted to catch it. Fuck breathing, fuck choking—this would only last a moment, and for that moment, I wanted it all.

His final thrusts were a scuffle. His hot cum jetted into me, hit the back of my throat, filled my mouth, spilled out the corners, and cooled as it ran down my chin. What I kept in, I swallowed—a little something to remember the evening—then let him go, sitting back to watch him catch his breath.

He leaned against the wall, fumbling now; clumsily working the zipper, button and buckle. It tugged at my heart to see him like this. Secretly, I’ve always loved the look of someone helpless in the afterglow. I straightened my skirt and wiped my face with the inside of my jacket. I’ll admit, I felt quite proud. I did that. I made someone feel that way—vulnerable, overwhelmed. It lit me up.

Finally, he looked at me with an extended hand.

“And there I was, all ready to head back,” he remarked, helping me to my feet.

“I guess the night’s full of surprises.”

“I guess it is.”


Begging for more?

About Henry is a free read you can enjoy here, and you can also read About Her here.

JL Peridot writes sexy, cosmopolitan love stories with scifi and retrofuture vibes. In her spare time, she watches movies, plays Dungeons & Dragons, and consumes wholesome memes on Twitter. With the help of supportive friends, a loving partner, two bossy cats and a well-used music subscription, she writes and writes in her sunny, sea-girt home. You can find her on Twitter or Facebook or leave a review at Goodreads.

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