Daphne Vs. Daddy

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Daphne

With butterflies in my stomach, I waltz out of the bathroom of our hotel room at the Carlyle, smoothing down my black lace teddy over my stomach. Do I have a pooch? Maybe I’m getting fat. I should probably go on a diet tomorrow. I suck my stomach in a little further.

I look over at the two men on the bed—one is my long-time boyfriend Roger, and the other guy is Carl, some random dude Roger brought to our hotel room to make my birthday wish come true—and I try to act as if this is normal. This is everyday shit for me, right?

Right.

I shoot them a confident smile, hiding my nerves under my exaggerated walk to the bed. My momma always told me to fake it ‘till I make it, and although I doubt she thought that I’d use her advice in my very first ménage, I still go with it anyway.

Except, when I snuggle up in the bed between them and we get down to doing boom chica bow wow, it’s …

Well, literally yawn-inducing. There’s Roger, sucking on my pinky toe and there’s Carl, going to town on my pussy, making all the right noises, and the only noise I can manage is a big ol’ yawn.

Roger flips me over onto my stomach and smacks me on the ass. Hard.

“Owwwwwwwww!” I holler just as he says, “You naughty girl, wanting two dicks at the same time.”

Except, I can only barely hear him over my own yelling. Dammit, that hurt! I rub my ass, trying to smooth the sting out, and Carl, bereft of my pussy since Roger had flipped me over onto my stomach, decides to start kissing his way up my leg.

Which just makes me laugh.

“Ohhh, stop!” I say between gasps of laughter. “That tick—” which is when my leg spasms and whacks him in the face. He jolts upright, holding a hand gingerly to his nose, and I say, unrepentantly, “I told you to stop.”

Okay, so that was a kind of bitchy comment to make, but shit, I could’ve told him the back of my legs were ticklish, if he’d just bothered to ask.

He mumbles something around his hand, which I ignore. I instead roll over, out of the grasp of Roger, who is trying to nibble on my neck and just seems to be getting drool everywhere instead, and I grab my phone. What time is it? We’d booked Carl for a whole hour, but I’m not sure I can last that long.

I click my phone on.

Twelve minutes? We’ve only been here for twelve fucking minutes?

Holy shit. I'm for sure not going to last an hour at this rate.

I go to click my phone back off so we can give this another shot, when I notice the battery warning. Only 14% left. I really should go plug it in. My phone has one of those retarded batteries, where the last 20% lasts all of four minutes. I’d hate to end the evening with a dead battery. It would be bad enough to end it sexually frustrated; let’s not add insult to injury.

“Hold on, let me go plug this in,” I tell the guys, and scoot off the end of the bed. I plug my phone into an outlet in the bathroom, straighten my hair, give myself a pep talk about how this is exactly what I’ve wanted for years now, and it’s going to be awesome and amazing and I just need to go out there and try it again, and then march out into the hotel room to find…

Roger being fucked by Carl.

Yup, Roger is being fucked in the ass by Carl.

My boyfriend is being fucked by our one-evening hook-up off Craigslist. The guy who was supposed to help me pop my ménage cherry.

“Uhhhhhh…”

I stagger and lean up against the open bathroom door for support.

“Uhhhhhh…”

Carl is just pistoning away in Roger’s ass, grunting as he goes, and Carl shoots me a “Whoops!” smile.

“I meant … to tell … you,” he says between Carl’s thrusts. “Oh yeah, baby, harder!”

Which is when I realize he is most definitely not talking to me anymore.

Well, there goes my 26th birthday present.

I do an about-face and stumble back into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

My boyfriend. My boyfriend of five years is … gay?

My head drops to my chest, and suddenly, all I want to do is get the fuck out of here. I can still hear them going at it, grunting and talking nasty to each other. I throw my clothes on as fast as I can, hands trembling. I’m really regretting wearing stilettos to the hotel for this super-sexy ménage birthday present because they’re not exactly the most stable of shoes on the face of the planet, and oh my God, my legs are as weak as cooked spaghetti. As I slam the hotel room door closed behind me, I hear, “That’s right, I’m going to treat you like the bitch you—”

The door is closed. I can’t hear them anymore.

Oh, thank God.

I head off in search of the hotel bar, because if any night is an excuse to get rip-roaring drunk, tonight is it.

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