Guest blog: Me, my husband, and our first ever threesome

Image by the always fantastic Stuart F Taylor

I am always excited to read guest blogs about first times – there’s something shiveringly delicious about that moment when something you’ve dreamed about for ages starts coming true. Especially when that thing either lives up to or exceeds all your lustful expectations. So you’ll understand why I’m completely in love with this week’s guest blog, by Leah, detailing the first ever threesome she had – with her husband, and a woman called ‘C’.

Me, my husband, and our first ever threesome

My husband sent me a text that afternoon: a screenshot of a thread between him and C, the woman he’d been casually seeing for a month or so. He’d told her we would both be home that night, and she was welcome to come over to see where things went. Her reply, studded with wide-eyed, red-cheeked emojis and ellipses, made my stomach swoop with fear and delight.

“…I’ll be there at 6.”

***

A threesome had long been on a kind of subconscious, don’t-think-about it bucket list for me. Deep into erotic fantasies, hand in my underwear, I might have admitted to myself that I wanted to feel more than one set of hands on me, more than one mouth on my breasts. Even deeper, obscured at every level, the notion of one of those mouths being a woman… well. Let’s just say I was out of touch with my desires.

But open relationships are great for desires. They’re great for communicating deeply-held needs, great for articulating things that used to be off-limits, great for moving the boundaries a little farther out, and seeing what happens.

My husband knew I wanted to experience sex with a woman. He knew that he wanted to watch me have sex, with anyone, and he had recently found someone who was open to the idea. It would be the first time for all of us, which turned out to be perfect. Nobody was jaded, nobody was kindly guiding anyone through a new experience: we were, all three of us, excited, horny, and terrified. It worked.

***

I drove home in a daze and found my husband blasting music, drinking gin, and grinning like a fool. I joined him. It felt like the night of a school ball or the party where you know your crush is going to kiss you. Everything thrummed and we kept hugging each other and dancing like idiots and kissing like newlyweds. Nervous isn’t quite the word. I didn’t know, up until that night, that you could be so afraid of something that you wanted so badly.

She arrived; we gripped each other a little tighter. We gave her gin and sat her down in our living room, all three of us buzzing with the knowledge of what we were about to do. I saw my husband reach out his foot beneath the coffee table and rest it against hers, and my heart flipped over. A while later, lightheaded and burning, I excused myself to the bathroom, which was only partly a ruse.

I knew – I was certain – what I was coming back to, but even so I had to lean against the doorframe to support my jelly legs. She had moved from the armchair to the sofa, next to my husband, and they were kissing, and his hand was inside her bra. I sat down on the empty chair and watched.

Watching – who could possibly explain to me what a turn-on that would become? Even later, when she and I were standing and kissing softly and he was kneeling between us, using his tongue and fingers interchangeably as he slid us out of our clothes – even when I had her nipple in my mouth for the first time – even when I slid a finger inside her wet, slick pussy and heard her gasp – even as I confirmed for myself what I had only very occasionally allowed my deeper conscience to wonder (I do like women, too) – it all pales in comparison to the moment when I left the bedroom for a moment to get some water, and arrived back to find him on top of her, her legs spread wide, her hands gripping his back.

I watched my husband fuck her, watched as he smiled down at her, watched as he thrust into her, heard her take it and like it and want more, and I thought – this can’t get any better.

We ended up in a pile of soft skin, sweaty limbs, shy smiles and kisses and fingers against flesh, on our guest bed, blissful.

***

The morning after was, maybe, the best part. The two of us grinned and touched and giggled like we had just lost our virginity to each other. We couldn’t stop smiling, reliving the best parts, talking out our surprise and relief and arousal. I could still smell her on my fingers. I could still see the image of them locked together on that bed.

We’ve had a lot more threesomes since then, with women and men, and though plenty have been objectively better, more satisfying, more exploratory and filthy and exciting, nothing will ever, ever, take the shine off that first mesmerising time.

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