Spaghetti

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.