“Do you want to meet up with us?”
When I sent that text, my heart was in my mouth and butterflies in my stomach. You were sitting next to me on the sofa, keeping a close eye on my reaction, and there was this beautiful half-smile on your lips.
We’d been talking to this guy for a while now. A total stranger we met through a dating app. It was the level of detail he had in his profile and the humour embedded in it that had attracted us to him in the first place. That and (perhaps weirdly) the fact he hadn’t put a picture of himself up. Intrigued, I shared his profile with you.
You of course fired off a hello, and spent that afternoon in a back and forth getting to know him thing.
At work.
Without me knowing.
Dinner and some Small-Talk
That evening, we went out for dinner together. You were giving me these looks across the table, and I knew I was in for a good seeing to later. I slipped off a shoe and my foot found your ankle, my toes explored around under your trousers there.
I was trying so hard to be patient, waiting for you to bring up the profile I’d sent. But you didn’t. You just kept belligerently small-talking at me. We’d finished eating and you were still playing coy.
Still not mentioning it.
Still doing the small-talk thing.
And I just couldn’t wait any longer.
“Did you look at it?” I asked, all wide-eyed earnestness, trying hard not to smile.
“What?” your grin betraying you.
“The guy, the profile I sent you!” I said, a little too loudly it seemed; the people at the table next to us paused in their conversation.
You got your phone out, started scrolling.
For a moment I had a doubt. I thought maybe you really hadn’t seen it yet.
WTF! Mr. Muscles?
But then you passed it to me, and it was a WALL of text. I read through the conversation you’d had. And there at the bottom, just below a couple of pictures of us that you’d shared, was one of him.
“Ooh.”
It came out as more of a breath than a word.
In the picture, he was sitting on a sand dune, wind blowing the reedy grass back behind him. The sky was a beautiful pale blue and he was in a white T-shirt and faded blue jeans. He was slightly in profile, but looking at the camera, his eyes so dark it was impossible to judge the colour of them. His short grey hair was styled back from his brow, and he was clean-shaven, conventionally good-looking, face well-proportioned.
But it wasn’t that that drew the breath from me. It was his arms. Even though his clothes were not deliberately emphasising his physique, he was clearly ripped. A true-life Mr. Muscles! I mean, my god!
Just below the picture he’d written, almost apologetically, that he took it off his profile, because it was generating too much of the type of interest he wasn’t looking for.
“Blimey,” I said.
And bugger me, if I wasn’t blushing under the intensity of your scrutiny.
“It’s Mr. Muscles,” you said, your grin widening.
“It’s uncanny,” I said.
A New Third
That evening, we had some very lovely sex. There was a dildo involved. And a butt-plug. And some lube. And at one point the flogger made a short, but very dramatic appearance.
So, coming back to the start, we were sitting there on the sofa, waiting for his answer. You put your arm around me and pulled me against you. I snuggled in, my hand wandered into your lap finding the promise of your hardness there, which of course I gave a promising squeeze.
It didn’t take him long to reply.
And I can report now, that his eyes are brown.
And that it is indeed very satisfying to be spanked by such a well-muscled man.
Unnghhh.