Chapter 2: The Jeans Come Off
The silence after Zelda’s command was absolute, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator. Aidan’s fingers, still on the button of his jeans, felt like they belonged to someone else. The denim was stiff. His heart was a wild, pounding thing against his ribs.
He popped the button. The sound was obscenely loud.
The zipper’s rasp followed, a slow, teeth-grinding descent. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband, over the soft cotton of his boxer-briefs, and pushed. The jeans slid down his thighs, catching briefly on his knees before pooling around his ankles on the worn rug. The cool air of the room washed over his legs.
He stood now in the frilly apron and his dark grey briefs, which were strained tight across the front by the thick, heavy outline of his erection. He felt utterly exposed, more so than if he’d been fully naked. The apron was a parody of modesty, the briefs a taut canvas for what they all knew was underneath.
“Those too,” Catriona said. Her voice was low, steady. A direct order. No playful lilt, no smirk. This was the core of the bet.
He nodded, a short, sharp motion. He hooked his fingers into the elastic at his hips. He didn’t look at them; he looked at the ceiling, at a water stain shaped like a continent. He pushed the briefs down. They fell, and his cock sprang free, slapping up against his lower abdomen, full and achingly hard.
There was a collective intake of breath. A sharp gasp from Mara. A low, impressed whistle from Freya.
“Jesus Christ, Cat,” Zelda murmured, her analytical cool momentarily shattered. “You’ve been holding out on us.”
Aidan forced his eyes down. They were all staring, their earlier amusement replaced by something hungry and focused. Freya’s mouth was slightly open. Zelda’s eyes were wide, her head tilted as if assessing a piece of art. Mara had brought her knees up to her chest, watching over the tops of them. And Catriona… Catriona was leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, her wine forgotten. Her expression was one of pure, possessive pride. Her gaze traveled the length of him, from the flushed head peeking from its hood, down the thick, veined shaft, to the heavy set of his balls. A slow, deep blush colored her freckled chest.
“It’s even bigger than you said,” Freya breathed.
“Told you,” Catriona said, never taking her eyes off him. “Now, Zelda. Your turn.”
Zelda recovered her composure, the corner of her mouth ticking up. “Aidan. Touch yourself. Let’s see what you do with it when you’re all alone. But do it slow. Make it last.”
His hand moved almost automatically, a relief and a fresh layer of shame. His palm was damp. He wrapped his fingers around the base, his grip firm, and gave one long, slow stroke upwards. The skin was hot and silken under his touch. A bead of moisture welled at the tip. He spread it with his thumb on the next downstroke.
“Fuck,” Freya whispered, shifting on the couch.
He fell into a rhythm, his fist gliding up and down his shaft. The room was silent except for the soft, wet sound of his hand moving and the ragged pull of his own breath. He watched them watching him. It was the most surreal, most electrifying moment of his life. Their eyes were on his fist, on the head of his cock peeking out from his grip with every upstroke, on the tension in his forearm.
“He’s good at that,” Mara said quietly, almost to herself.
“Lots of practice,” Catriona replied, her voice a little rough. “But never like this.”
Zelda stood up. She moved with a predatory grace, circling him. Her black jeans whispered as she walked. She stopped behind him, and he could feel her presence at his back, could smell her perfume—cloves and amber. “Look at him,” she said to the others. “All that pride, all that competitive swagger, and he’s standing here jerking his big, beautiful cock off because we told him to. Because he lost.”
Her words were a brand. They should have made him angry, should have made him stop. Instead, his hand moved faster. A low groan escaped his throat.
“He likes it,” Zelda observed, her breath near his ear. “He likes being our show.”
“Aidan.” It was Freya. She had uncrossed her legs and was sitting on the edge of the sofa cushion. Her athletic leggings were a bright shade of coral. She patted the space on the floor directly in front of her. “Come here. I want a closer look.”
He stopped stroking, his cock throbbing in the sudden stillness. He looked at Catriona. She gave a single, imperious nod.
He walked to where Freya sat, the apron strings swaying. He knelt on the rug, the rough texture biting into his knees. From here, he was level with her lap.
“You’re dripping,” she said, her gaze fixed on the shining head of his cock. “Such a pretty mess.” She leaned back, spreading her legs, planting her feet flat on the floor on either side of him. The pose was blatant, open. “I’m feeling left out. I think you should use that talented mouth of yours.”
He didn’t need a translation. The scent of her, warm and musky, cut through the lavender incense. He leaned forward, nuzzling the soft cotton covering her crotch. He could feel the heat radiating from her.
“No, you idiot,” she giggled, but it was breathless. “The leggings have to go.” She helped him, lifting her hips as he pulled the tight fabric down her legs and off, tossing them aside. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
Her pussy was neat, blonde curls glistening. She was already wet, her lips swollen and parted.
“Go on,” Catriona said from the couch. Her command was a push between his shoulder blades.
He buried his face between Freya’s thighs. The first intimate, salty taste of her made his own hips jerk. He licked a slow, broad stripe from her entrance up to her clit.
Freya jolted, a sharp cry escaping her. “Oh, fuck, yes. Right there.”
He settled in, the world narrowing to the smell and taste of her, to the soft, desperate sounds she made above him. He lapped at her, circling her clit with the flat of his tongue before sucking it gently into his mouth. He slid two fingers inside her, curling them, finding the rough patch inside that made her back arch off the couch.
“Shit, Aidan,” she gasped, her hands tangling in his hair, not guiding, just holding on. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. The humiliation, the performance, it all melted into this single, focused task. To make her come. To hear her lose that bubbly control. He fucked her with his fingers, steadily, while his mouth worked her clit. Her thighs began to tremble against the sides of his head.
“He’s going to make her come,” Mara whispered, awe in her voice.
“He’s very motivated,” Zelda said. Aidan could hear the smile in it.
Freya’s breaths became short, frantic pants. Her grip on his hair tightened painfully. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna…”
He redoubled his efforts, his tongue firm and relentless. With a broken, shuddering cry, Freya came, her whole body tensing and then flooding his mouth with the sharp, tangy release of her orgasm. He drank it down, licking her through the pulses until she went limp, pushing weakly at his head.
He pulled back, his lips and chin glistening. He looked up at her. Her face was flushed, her ponytail disheveled, a dazed, blissful smile on her lips.
“Holy shit,” she breathed, looking down at him with new, glassy eyes. “You win. You definitely win.”
Aidan knelt back on his heels, his own need a painful, throbbing ache. He was painfully hard, his cock jutting out untouched, smearing a wet spot on the apron.
Catriona stood up. She walked over, her movements slow and deliberate. She stopped beside him, looking down at where he knelt before the spent Freya. She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair, a strangely tender gesture.
“Good,” she said softly, for his ears only. Then, to the room, her voice regaining its edge, “But the weekend’s far from over. Get up. There’s more to clean.”