By Bud Koenemund
The question hung
in the air long enough for him to know her answer would be a lie.
“No,” Amy said, finally.
The right corner
of his mouth curved up, just a millimeter.
“Never?” he
challenged. “Not even all the times you two went on vacation together, and got
drunk every night?”
More silence. He
waited.
“Well…” she
began. “Once, in Cabo – we were both buzzed – I woke up during the night, and
May was between my legs, eating me out.”
“What did you
do?” he asked.
“What do you
mean?” she returned.
“Did you tell her
to stop?” he pressed.
“N… no,” she
admitted.
“Then you liked
it?” he observed.
“No,” she
objected, a little too vehemently.
“Then, why didn’t
you stop her?” he charged.
Her gaze fell to
the floor.
“Because, I
wanted to cum,” she whispered.
“So, you liked
it,” he stated.
“I mean… in the
moment,” she allowed. “Yes.”
He tried to reply,
but she interrupted.
“I’m straight,”
she blurted. “I would never do that sober.”
“What you do
drunk is what your subconscious wants,” he countered.
She didn’t protest.
A soft knock drew their attention to the door. A moment later, May entered
the room.
