by Sarina Bowen
SinnerThree: Are you wearing the lobster shorts???
LobsterShorts: Of course. They’re my fave.
He sends another pic, and I laugh harder. In this one, he’s zoomed in on one of the red lobsters, with his hand forming a thumbs-up beside it.
SinnerThree: Why are you in swim trunks, you asshole? Don’t tell me you went somewhere warm for the holidays while I’m stuck here in blizzard land.
LobsterShorts: OK. I won’t tell you that.
SinnerThree: So you’re still in Connecticut?
LobsterShorts: No. I escaped to the beach. Sorry?
SinnerThree: You’d better be. I ain’t lying about the blizzard. We got eight inches of snow last night.
LobsterShorts: I’ll give you eight inches.
And then he does. Or at least I think so. I’ll be better able to judge his dick size when I get my hands on it in person, but in the pics it looks nearly as big as mine. And I’m well-endowed, as the dollar-bill-waving women at Jill’s can attest to.
SinnerThree: Yes. Please give it to me. I’m in a shit mood and it’s the holidays. I require the gift of your cock.
LobsterShorts: Soon. First show me yours.
SinnerThree: I’ll do you one better. Stand by.
I yank my sweats down and kick them away, making myself comfortable on my bed. I shove a couple of pillows beneath my head, grip my dick in one hand, and hold my phone in the other. A quick peek at the screen assures me that I’m not revealing any incriminating evidence about my identity. All he’ll be able to see is my cock, my hand, and the patterned bedspread. I think I’m safe.
I rarely send videos because of this exact worry. Winding up in some jerkoff compilation on PornHub doesn’t concern me so much as someone figuring out who I am. If I’m going to be a multi-millionaire by the time I’m thirty, I can’t have dirty videos of me floating around the internet. Unless I make my millions building a Hugh Hefner-like empire… Maybe I’ll put a pin in that one.
At the moment, I’m busy jerking off for Lobsterman.
Oh fuckkkkkk, is his immediate response after I send him a five-second vid of some lazy stroking.
Then he says: MORE.
Greedy fucker.
Grinning, I decide to tease it out. My fingers close in a fist, which I slowly slide down to the base, then equally slowly slide back up. When I reach the tip, I give a slight twist and squeeze. The camera perfectly captures the bead of pre-come that forms.
I hit Send.
LobsterShorts: You have such a hot dick.
My breathing quickens. I stroke a bit faster, groaning quietly, before realizing I’m no longer recording myself or responding to LobsterShorts. The heat in my blood and the ache in my balls distracted me.
LobsterShorts: What, can I not say that?
I swallow through my arid throat and still my hand.
SinnerThree: Sorry. Got caught up in the self-stroking. Can you not say what?
LobsterShorts: That you have a hot dick.
SinnerThree: God, no, definitely say it. That’s what got me distracted ;)
LobsterShorts: Good. Send another vid. I wanna see more.
SinnerThree: Are you jacking yours right now?
LobsterShorts: Obvs.
I smile at the phone. He’s gotten bolder and bolder with every chat, every naughty message. And it’s been a while since he’s disappeared on me. Lately, he’s coming back for more almost instantly, instead of hiding because of his guilt. I…don’t think he feels guilty about this anymore.
Since I can’t record myself and read his messages at the same time, I rely on my brain to provide the stimulation I need. I picture Lobsterman kneeling between my legs, his head bobbing over me. His lips are wrapped tightly around my dick, tongue scraping the entire length each time he takes me deep. I picture my fingers tangling in his hair—can they tangle there? Is it long? Buzzed? I realize I’ve never thought to ask. And right now I don’t care to. Fine. There’s enough hair for my fingers to grasp, to tug on as I thrust my hips and fuck his mouth.
Hoarse breaths provide the soundtrack for my dirty video. A grunt. A torturous moan as my mind conjures up the image of me coming in Lobster’s mouth and him greedily swallowing every drop.
I explode in real life, nearly dropping the phone as the climax rips through me. As it is, the camera work is severely lacking in skill, because I’m shuddering and groaning too hard to keep the phone steady. I guess that cameraman job on the set of Martin Scorsese’s next film is out—and yet judging by Lobster’s response to my masterpiece, I just created an Academy Award winner.
LobsterShorts: Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.
LobsterShorts: Do you even realize how goddamn sexy that was?
I can’t answer, because my body has sunk into the mattress. My limbs are jelly from the orgasm, and my abs are sticky from it.
I finally catch my breath just as a video message from him fills our chat. I find the strength to click on it, and in a heartbeat I’m back to being breathless. It’s not even ten seconds long, but it’s enough to make me semi-hard again, which I would’ve thought impossible.
Biting my lip, I watch as his strong fist works his dick. I listen to the husky moan he lets out as he comes.
My pulse is racing as I type a shaky message.
SinnerThree: Okay. Jesus. Enough is enough, dude. We need to fuck. In person. Like, ASAP.
LobsterShorts: January 4th, remember?
SinnerThree: Promise you won’t bail on me? Because, fuck, I need this.
LobsterShorts: I won’t bail. I need this, too.
It doesn’t escape me that he wrote “I”, and not “we.” Which makes me wonder if his girlfriend is no longer part of this equation.
But he squashes that notion by adding, My gf and I got a suite at the Grand Windsor. So. Saturday, around nine o’clock?
Um. Yes, please. I just have to figure out how to make this happen without missing work. Saturday nights at Jill’s are huge money. Maybe I can start at midnight instead of ten? But that’s assuming three hours is enough time for all the fucking I have planned.
I’ll figure something out, though. I always do.
SinnerThree: I’ll be there.
Make a Wish, Honey
Keaton
Leaving paradise and returning to “blizzard land,” as Sinner calls it, isn’t something I’d normally be pumped about, but I’d rather sleep naked on a bed of snow than spend even five more seconds with my father.
He was insufferable this entire trip, constantly needling me about the finance internship at his company. And when he wasn’t applying the job pressure, he was harassing me about the Alpha Delt presidency, offering “suggestions” about how to sway votes.
Needless to say, I’m happy to be home as I breathe in the frigid January air after stepping off the family jet. My folks are spending another week in Costa Rica, so I had the plane to myself on the flight back to Connecticut. Gave me plenty of time to think about tomorrow night.
D-Day. Or rather, T-Night. The threesome. The big ménage a trois.
Am I nervous? Yes. Excited? Also yes. Terrified?
Maybe a bit.
I have no idea what to expect. My girlfriend claimed that the idea of me touching a dude and vice versa turns her on, but what if it has the opposite effect in real life? What if she freaks out when faced with the reality of it? What if I freak out?
Even after a five-hour flight, during which I was alone with my thoughts, my mind is still racing as I go through customs and grab an Uber at the airport. And it’s still racing when I wake up late the next morning. Saturday morning.
AKA T-Day.
It’s Annika’s birthday, you idiot. Don’t forget that part.
Oh, right. I’m getting ahead of myself here.
I reach for my phone and call my girlfriend.
“Quick!” I shout when she answers. “Meet me at the liquor store, birthday girl! I need your ID.”
Her soft laughter tickles my ear. “You’re such a goofbal
l.”
“Is that a no? Because you’re twenty-one now, which means there’s no reason why you can’t buy me booze.”
“It’s eleven thirty,” she teases. “Do you really want a drink right now?”
“Nah.” I chuckle, then sit up and rub my eyes with one hand. “We’ll save the drinks for tonight.”
There’s a short pause.
“Babe?” I prompt.
“Sorry, yes, I’m here. And yes, I think there’s going to be quite a lot of drinking tonight.”
I can’t tell if her tone is hesitant or distracted. The latter, I decide, when I hear a flurry of female voices on the other end of the line.
“What’s going on in that sorority house?” I ask with a laugh.
“The girls are preparing a birthday brunch for me. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on the mimosas. Hold on a sec, baby—” Annika’s voice becomes muffled as she addresses someone else. “I’m coming down, I’m coming down! Keaton just called to wish me a happy birthday.” There’s a rustling sound. “Hey, I’m back. But I have to go. Lindy says my presence is required downstairs.”
“Wait,” I say before she can go. “There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
I put her on speaker, press play on the track I’ve cued up, and Beyoncé’s “Crazy in Love” blares out of my phone. I let the song play for about ten seconds before shutting it off and saying, “Happy birthday, Ani.”
“Oh, Keaton.” Her voice trembles slightly. “I really do love you.”
“Love you too.”
We hang up, and I lumber naked toward the bathroom to empty my bladder and take a shower. I’m drying off my ass when the bathroom door opens suddenly.
I whirl around, and there’s Luke Bailey in the doorway, a sour look on his face. “Do you mind? I’m almost done in here.”
“Do you mind?” he echoes. “Or are you hell bent on bribing your way into the presidency?”
Fuck.
“It’s not against the rules for my father to give out gifts,” I say, tying the towel around my waist.
“It should be,” he snaps.
The dude is right. Privately, I’m still mortified at my father’s behavior. But I’m not a big fan of Luke’s scowl, either. And I’m not going to hand him the presidency just because my father is a pushy son of a bitch. Bailey would make a terrible president.
“You don’t think people can make up their own minds?” I ask, opening the medicine cabinet to look for my deodorant. But I haven’t unpacked yet, so it’s not there.
“I think you play the part of the laidback fun guy really well. But you’re actually a conniving little bitch.”
I laugh, because he’s got it so wrong. I take two steps toward him, because he’s blocking my way back to my suitcase in my room.
He holds his ground.
“Really?” I drawl. “You want to throw down right here in the bathroom over it?”
His scowl deepens as he steps aside. But then the bastard lingers in the doorway of my room, where I start to root through the suitcase on the bed. I pick up a double handful of bathing suits and beachwear, thinking to toss it onto the bed.
But, fuck. Bailey thinks I’m exactly the kind of spoiled rich guy who just came home from a tropical vacation. And I am, so it’s not like I can argue the point.
I drop the clothes back into the bag and turn around, blocking his view of my stuff. “Do you have anything material to say? Or are you just here to whine at me.”
“Just…” He sighs. “If you need to cheat to impress everybody, why even bother?”
“Why indeed,” I say mildly. Not even Luke Bailey can dampen my spirits today. Even if he’s right. I’m in far too good a mood. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have places to be.”
The hotel suite I booked is killer. With a Jacuzzi tub, a giant king-sized bed, and a seventy-inch TV. Even the meal I ordered from room service is delicious.
But at some point between the crab fritters and the exquisite slices of chocolate cake, I realize that Annika is nervous.
She didn’t eat very much, I realize. And now, as I light the candle I brought to top her slice of cake, I see uncertainty as well as candlelight flickering in her eyes.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…” I do jazz hands, and really camp it up as I sing. “Happy birthday, dear sexy pants…”
She gives me a shy smile, but doesn’t quite look me in the eye.
I finish the song with gusto. “Make a wish, honey. Feel free to make it a dirty one about me.”
She inhales, looks me in the eye and...hesitates.
I wait impatiently, because everyone knows you can’t sink your fork into the cake before the birthday girl is ready. And it looks like terrific cake. I can almost taste it now. Honestly, I’m like a giant ball of anticipation tonight. It’s been a struggle not to keep checking the time.
Sinner is probably already on his way here. It’s a quarter to nine.
Annika pushes her chair back from the table. “I don’t know, Keaton. I don’t think I can do this.”
“It’s just a wish, babe. And watch that wax—it’s about to drip onto your ganache frosting.”
She leans over and blows out the candle quickly. Then she sits back and sighs. “Keaton, is there really a guy on his way over here?”
I nod. “Why would I lie about that?”
Annika bites her lower lip. Then she throws me a curveball. “I think you should tell him not to come.”
“Wait, what?” My fork hovers over my own slice of cake.
“I…” She visibly gulps. “I don’t want to go through with it.”
“Annika!” I set down my fork with a clatter. “This was your idea. We can’t just text him to say never mind.”
“Sure we can!” she squeaks, popping out of her chair and crossing the room to look out the window.
It’s dark out there, so she can’t really see much. When she turns to face me, I don’t miss the misery swimming in her eyes.
“I was wrong,” she moans, and her cheeks are slowly reddening, either from embarrassment or anger. The former, I suspect. “This isn’t me. I thought I could be someone else for a night, and God knows our sex life needs a shakeup. But I can’t get naked with a stranger. I can’t.”
“But…” I take a deep breath and realize that my heart is pounding. There’s no way I can just bail on Sinner now. “This was supposed to be an adventure. You’re just nervous, like that time we took that scuba class. That turned out fine.”
“No.” She shakes her head vehemently. “This is so not the same thing. I was trying to be fun and daring. And I was trying to give you some hints that we needed a mojo makeover.”
“A... mojo makeover?” I’m so confused right now. “Is that a spa treatment?”
“No!” she shrieks. “I mean sex, Keaton. We’re in a rut. I thought I would suggest a threesome, and you’d realize we needed to put some more effort into the bedroom. You could have just bought sexy handcuffs and edible massage oil.”
It’s suddenly very important that I make her understand. “You asked me for this,” I say tightly. “And I delivered.”
“I can’t, Keaton. I’m sorry.”
“You’re just having cold feet because he’s a faceless stranger,” I try. “Let’s just meet him and then decide.”
Once again, she sounds miserable. “What will that accomplish? I’ll just have to embarrass myself to someone in person. This way he’ll never know which of us chickened out.”
And that’s exactly the problem. I consider Sinner a friend. And if I bail right now, he won’t understand that it wasn’t me who pulled the ripcord.
I don’t know why that bothers me so much. But it really does.
“You’re making me look like an asshole here,” I mumble. I take my fork and plunge it into my untouched slice of cake. And then I take a big bite. The chocolate flavor explodes on my tongue, but it doesn’t erase the flash of resentment that I’m experiencing.
I can’t even look at Annika right now. If she’d never asked for a threesome, I wouldn’t be in this position at all. I wouldn’t have chatted with Sinner. And I wouldn’t have wanted so badly to meet him.
“Keaton,” she says in a low voice. “People probably bail on these hookups all the time. He has to know that.”
“I’m sure he does. But they don’t get bailed on by me.”
I push the chocolate cake away. The force of my emotions is confusing to me. Annika is well within her rights to say no to a sexual encounter that she doesn’t want. Only an asshole would get mad at his girlfriend for expressing her discomfort, for choosing to back out. But I am mad. I’m mad because—fuck. No. Anger isn’t what I’m feeling, I realize in dismay. That tightness in my throat, the shakiness of my pulse.
It’s disappointment.
That’s the real problem, right? I wanted this so much. She has no idea. Hell, I had no idea.
“Please, baby,” she begs. “I’m so sorry. I know this is awkward. I guess I just didn’t picture us actually going through with it.”
Another rush of disbelief hits my veins. “I always keep my promises. Why would you think we wouldn’t go through with it?”
“I’m sorry!” she hisses, her eyes glistening. “But you have to message him right now. He could show up at any moment. Or I could do it.” She crosses the room to retrieve my phone off the bedside table.
Shit.
She unlocks the screen and scrolls through my apps. “What does it look like? I’ll tell him I’m the one who bailed—”
There’s a knock on the door. Three raps.
Our eyes meet from across the room. “Can I let him in?” I whisper.
Slowly, she shakes her head.
Fuck.
Crossing the rug to the door, I try to think of what I’ll say when I step outside and apologize. That will be awkward, but at least I can say my piece. Maybe he’s ugly, anyway. Maybe I’ll laugh about this tomorrow.
Maybe this sick, sad feeling in my gut will go away.
